


Boy King

by karadeniz



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, But today is not that day, F/M, Romance, one day i will write a romcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25971415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karadeniz/pseuds/karadeniz
Summary: England, 1213. The English court is a snake pit, a cluster of ambition and schemes and gossip that threaten to topple the existing order at any given moment. While her son fights a war in France, Queen Calanthe must act as Queen Regent and do everything in her power to keep the threats at bay.Then tragedy strikes, and suddenly, the snakes begin to move.The year is 1213 and the king is dead. Long live the king.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon & Eist Tuirsach, Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 56
Kudos: 52





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The sky looked like sour milk. White, yellowish and flaky, a miserable mixture of thick clouds and a feeble morning sun trying its best to shine through an overcast sky.

If the weather seemed dull, it was nothing compared to the small company of roughly a dozen men and horses that trotted along the woodland path in gloomy silence. The muddy ground squelched beneath the many hooves and little clouds formed in front of the horses’ nostrils with each snort, clearly visible in the cool morning air for a moment before dissolving into nothing.

The young boy on his horse tried to hide his violent shivers. Occasionally, he would raise his hands to his mouth to blow puffs of warm breath onto them.

“Are ye all right, sire?” the older boy riding next to him asked.

“Yeah, just…wet,” he returned, and reached up to ruffle his brown hair, sending drops of water flying everywhere. “And tired. I feel like I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in ten years. A proper bed and four sturdy walls, that is what I will be most looking forward to when we finally return. What about you?”

“Ale," the ginger replied without missing a beat. "Good English ale, not this watered-down piss that couldn't even get a mouse tipsy."

The first boy laughed. “I thought your uncle told you to take it easy on the ale while we’re here?”

His question earned him a snort. That, too, turned into a little cloud.

"Just because he has made it his life’s mission doesn’t mean I’ll stay sober to look after your scrawny butt everytime ye get yourself in trouble.”

The company came to a bridge, old and narrow, that arched over a river. It might have been calmer in summer, but the heavy rainfall had turned the shallow waters into a raging torrent. The only sound was the clopping of hooves and the river beneath them.

The boy was about to counter his friend’s tease, when there was a whirr and a faint clatter. One of his men spurred his horse forward and slid down. They watched him lean down and reach for something on the ground. When he straightened back up, he was holding an arrow.

“AMBU—” The word was cut off by the sound of gurgling when another arrow pierced through the man’s hauberk. 

In the split of a second, chaos erupted.

There was shouting, arrows flying, horses and bodies stumbling under and over and against each other in panicked disarray.

"Go," his friend called to him over the noise, sword already drawn, "I'll cover you, just go!"

He was tempted, so tempted to clap spurs to his horse, to race out of this chaos, but before he could give in to that voice he looked back at his companions — and hesitated. Then many things happened at once. There was a sudden noise, like a swift whirr and then a sharp pain shooting through him, at the same time that his horse balked, and he, unable to hold on, felt himself being thrown off. 

He fell, fell longer than he would have expected, thought he could hear someone call his name, and then there was a sudden rush of cold, and everything turned dark.


	2. Bellum Sacrum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back and it's only been ten years! there is no particular reason why i chose this specific time period apart from the fact that 12th and 13th century women's headwear were dope af and we should bring them back; that being said i'm very happy to be more active again and i hope some of you are up for this ride 💙

Calanthe's gaze wandered. With half a mind she listened to the sermon, the other half was carefully studying each reaction and expression, every subtly twitching eyebrow or pursed lip, filing them away with meticulous attention. Spoken words were all good and well, but it was the nonverbal cues that told her what was really going on in the room.

She was not sure if she liked what she saw.

The Archbishop took the podium, chest puffed out with the self-importance of a cock on a dunghill. The texture of his voice showed similarities, too. Calanthe let out a soundless sigh and leaned further into the backrest.

The bench was getting more uncomfortable by the minute, and she shifted again, ever so slightly, trying to listen to the man's speech. Calanthe was by no means a heretic, and yet, she found herself more and more weary of the power and influence the men of the church were so adamant to yield over everyone and everything, while trembling at the slightest sign of defiance. Church and politics, they could not do without mingling with each other. 

Poor, unlucky fools, to be graced with a sovereign who had a bit of the devil in her. The corners of her mouth twitched.

“— for is it not our most sacred duty to clean such holy lands from a race so vile and wholly alienated from the Lord?”

The Archbishop talked of Jerusalem — again.

There was a throbbing forming behind her temple, she could feel it, and she focused on blinking slowly, anything to stop her from rolling her eyes heavenwards.

Instead, she let her gaze shift. It briefly flickered to where she knew the Head of her King's Guard was positioned. Maybe it was by chance, or maybe he had expected it, but when her eyes landed on him he turned his head slightly and caught her gaze, for just a moment.

There was the softest, most subtle hint of a smile around the corners of his eyes, and it was enough to ease the growing irritation in her stomach. She let it sink in, that warm feeling, before she returned her attention back to the man on the podium, who was still going on, and on.

“Let not your love for your family and your home detain you from following the Lord’s will, for has He not said: Everyone that hath forsaken houses or lands for my name's sake shall receive an hundredfold and shall inherit everlasting life.”

Somewhere in the darker places of her memory, Calanthe was quite certain to recall that the verse quoted was also directly tied to preachings such as ‘you shall not kill’ and ‘give up your worldly possessions’, not ‘wage war and get rich along the way’, but apparently anything could mean anything if taken out of context and wrapped up anew with a neat, little bow added to it.

She briefly rubbed her fingers against her temple before raising her hand. It was a simple gesture, and enough — the room fell quiet almost immediately.

"We hear your concerns, my lords. And yet, We cannot help but wonder why this is still a matter of discussion."

"Your majesty! Too long has the Holy City been infiltrated with heathens. Should we not even attempt to free it from those godless —"

"There have been numerous attempts, Your Grace," she interrupted him. "Some of which almost did not fail. Yet money spent on an _almost_ is money wasted."

The man's chest heaved visibly under his robe, roiling, but speechless for a moment.

Calanthe's eyes flickered again, coming to rest on Lord Stregobor, seated on the right, close to the speaker. He seemed... content, as he followed the discussion, confidence and condescension oozing off of him, viscous like sludge. Something about his presence reminded her of a scrawny creature that had just crawled out of a bog. If his eyes were to glow in the dark, she would not be surprised, she thought idly to herself.

"We shall discuss this later," she declared abruptly when the murmurs in the room threatened to grow, cutting the session short and rose from her chair.

* * *

She felt a distinct pain where the metal rim of her crown had dug into her scalp, and sighed in relief when she took it off her head and placed it on the small dresser by the window. Afterwards, she began to unpin her headgear. First the wimple and the veil, then the fillet which kept the thin, white fabrics in place. She would have to leave this room again soon, put everything back on for court, but for now she wanted to feel the spring sun on her skin that flooded in through the open window. English women cared so much about their fair complexion that they would deprive themselves from one of the few joys in life, she thought with a soft harrumph.

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, felt the warmth caress her skin and hoped it would chase away the chaos in her.

There was a knock on the door, and she would have been annoyed for the disturbance had she not recognised the tapping.

"Come in," she called out without opening her eyes, and the head of her royal guard entered her chamber. She could hear him shuffle, remaining close to the door, not out of uncertainty but simply giving her the time to acknowledge his presence. He was considerate like that.

"Close the door," she said softly. Only then did she open her eyes and turned to look at him. Calanthe let herself enjoy the sight of him for a moment — broad shoulders, intelligent, blue eyes, a shock of curly brown hair that made her fingers itch to run them through it.

It was almost enough to make her forget the throbbing behind her eyelids. Almost.

"Headache?" he asked with sympathy.

She hummed.

"Maybe —" he said while he filled a glass of watered-down wine and handed it to her, "— what could improve this matter is wearing a smaller crown," and he gave the bulky thing on the table a pointed look.

"Ha," she let out a laugh and took a long drink of the wine, "not likely. I cannot let these men look at me and believe I will not act as appointed regent until my son returns from France."

Eist's mouth twitched. As if he had expected anything less proud and stubborn from her.

"Besides," she continued, "I have the strong suspicion that the discomfort in my head stems far less from what sits on it than what it has to think about. Jerusalem!" The last word came out as a huff.

Jerusalem, and the entire rat's tail of implications that followed it. Tension was foaming up in her again, and she began to walk in mindless trails through her chamber.

Eist watched her pace, taking in all the signs of her unrest. She knew her body was showing just how high-strung she really was, the irritation thrumming through her with each step. It would be obvious to a stranger, and even more so to him, who could read her like a book. He saw through her, and further, knowing immediately there was more to it.

"What is the matter?" he asked finally.

Calanthe paused, and then let herself sink onto the bed next to where Eist had taken a seat.

For a while she said nothing, savouring the quiet moment where she could do nothing but simply sit, next to him, letting his calm and sturdy presence wash over her. Then she took a deep breath.

"I watch their faces in court, these men who swore fealty to the crown, and yet I wonder... how many of them will show loyalty, when it comes to it. The Archbishop's greed drives him towards Jerusalem, while Lord Stregobor can barely conceal his hunger for power. Already he's done everything to influence the young king with his own interests in mind."

"The Archbishop and Lord Stregobor have a considerable following," Eist agreed, brows furrowed.

"And those who do not openly support them, who of them will have the spine to go against them, if need be? If I cannot trust blindly, how can I trust at all?" She took an unsteady breath, and shook her head to herself. "It seems I find traitors wherever I look."

There was a pause, before Eist asked, with a low and quiet voice, "Wherever?"

He didn't need to formulate the unspoken question, she knew what he was asking. She looked at him, and softened.

"No," Calanthe conceded. "No, not wherever."

His finger brushed against hers where her hand rested next to his.

She wanted to reach out, hold it, sink her fingernails into it to make sure they'd never let go. Instead, she worried her lip between her teeth. They dug deep into the soft flesh, until there was a metallic taste on her tongue, until it was all she could think, feel, taste.

"Lie back." Eist's soft voice snapped her out of it.

It was not an order, but she did so without question, and closed her eyes the moment she felt his fingers against her skin, trailing up her calf and pushing the fabrics of her dress up with them. It was gentle, and unhurried, and she simply enjoyed the feelings of his calloused hands on her skin.

She pressed her knuckles against her mouth when she felt waves of pleasure wash over her, her hand curling into a fist and relaxing afterwards, falling limply on the bed next to her head while she waited for her chest to stop heaving and her muscles to stop trembling. Eist's hand was still trailing over her thighs, now more of a gentle caress bringing comfort than sending sparks of want through her. She felt wonderfully heavy, and calm, all the restless energy shattered when she did.

Her lungs heaved into one last, long sigh.

"Better?" Calanthe heard Eist ask, and she knew he already knew the answer when she opened her eyes and met his; fond satisfaction flickering in them and curling his mouth into a small smile.

She sat up in response, and took his face in her hands and kissed him. When she pulled back he was still smiling, ( _ridiculous man_.) The man who had vowed to protect her with his life — had proven it countless times, too.

He reached out to take one of her hands in his. Turning her palm upwards, tracing the lines on it with his thumb. She watched the smile on his face turn into something more sober, reverent.

"There are a great many people who are loyal to you and your family. You must know that, Calanthe," and he sealed his declaration with a brief kiss to her forehead.

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she had to rise to her feet, take a few steps away from the moment that was just a tad too domestic, a little too tender. She was already indulging herself outside of respectability enough as it was.

"Back into battle?" he asked.

"Yes." She began to gather her things. "Yes, most certainly."

Her braid was somewhat of a mess, she noted when she threw it back over her shoulder, but it would have to do. It's not like a man would notice. The headgear was still on the dresser where she had left it, and Calanthe wrapped the items back into place.

"Everything is a struggle with them. They don't like being told what to do by a woman," she huffed while she ran her hands over her dress to smooth out the fabric.

"Then they're clearly missing out on a good time," Eist countered and she let out a loud laugh at that.

Finally, she looked up and met his eyes, already watching her with the most affectionate expression on his handsome face. The look burned right through her and for a second, she was tempted to indulge him a little, too (— and resisted. She was running on a tight schedule, after all.) Instead, she dropped for a mock curtsey, corners of her mouth curling.

"Do I look presentable, good sir?"

He took his time to let his gaze wander over her, eyes twinkling, and they came to rest on her face, which, she realised, might still be slightly flushed from earlier.

She ignored the sense to blush some more.

"Like a king," Eist finally said, and she grinned.

"Then I will go now and explain to the Lord Clerics why I am less than inclined to fund them their little crusade, no matter how much they whine and pout."

* * *

And, by heavens, did they pout.

Rich men and small children, they had to be the same species, of that Calanthe was certain as she endured their tantrum — more dignified than children's, considering there was no snot, and arguably less dignified, considering that they were bloody grown men.

"— one must not refuse God's calling, for it is his wish to see the Holy Land freed from the heathens!" Cardinal Fisher declared.

"We are not refusing, My Lord. By all means, pursue this crusade," she countered with a drawl. "If you fund it from your own pocket and find men to follow 'God's calling' across the entire continent by their own free will, We shall not forbid it."

She watched the cardinal's mouth open and close silently with the grace of a dying fish.

They were no fun to argue with, she thought, almost bored — neither wit nor fire.

The Archbishop took a step forward, shoulders rigid and his square face holding a trace of... intent. So maybe some fire after all. She tipped her chin down, watching him expectantly.

"The war in France is won, due to our great King Coram's strength. The King has proven the Kingdom of England's worth to Europe, and his power as king. But he has yet to prove his dedication to the power of Rome. This is the King's and England's time to rise to the occasion and unite the Christian armies to win back the Holy Land from the devilish heathens."

Calanthe felt the muscles in her jaw work as she listened to the man's speech, more and more anticipating where this was going.

"A true Christian ruler would seize this opportunity," the Archbishop continued. "Do you not call yourself the mother of a great ruler, your majesty? The last thing We wish is to doubt your dedication and believe that you find yourself sympathising with the Moors and Mohammedans, given your parental kingdom's... history."

She practically growled as she pushed herself up from her chair, and saw with satisfaction that most of the clergymen suddenly avoided her gaze or shifted nervously. _Good_ , she thought, _they should tremble_.

"What you believe or do not believe to be so moves me not, Your Grace," she said, voice dangerously calm. "There will be no royal decree for a crusade. That is Our final word on this matter. Is that understood?" 

Her eyes traveled along the rows, daring anyone to challenge her. This time, no one did.

“Good,” she said simply.

* * *

The fire was burning low. Someone would have to stack it up soon, before the last flame burned out and the fireplace turned into a dark pit of dust and ashes. Occasionally the flames would shiver a bit more violently when a gust of wind found its way through the walls and into her chamber.

Every hair on her body rose up when, for the split second that the door opened and closed, another wave of cold air washed through the room, and then lowered in appeasement when warm hands came around her body and pulled her back against the solidness of his chest.

"You're late."

"I'll make it up to you," he murmured and stayed true to his word when he began placing little kisses on her shoulder and her neck.

Calanthe was never one to make it that easy, though.

"What makes you think I'm still in the mood?" she asked, and had to bite her lip quickly when he found the tender stop behind her ear.

"Oh,” he said with a frown, “oh well, if you're not in the mood —".

She felt him beginning to pull away and, her own body betraying her, instinctively tightened her hold on him to keep him in place, and he laughed warmly against her neck, both knowing she walked right into his very own bluff.

Calanthe growled when she swiveled around and grabbed the nape of his neck to pull him down, swallowing his laughter with her mouth. It was not a soft kiss, her tongue brushed against his teeth the moment his lips were pressed to hers, finding his own already waiting and hot and eager.

He would have been content like this for longer, all _letting-the-journey-be-the-destination_ , she knew, but she was more of the _cut-to-the-chase_ sort, and she was getting impatient.

“Determined to waste more of my time, sir?” she asked, and yelped softly when he tightened his grip around her in response, lifting her up from the floor enough to take her over to the bed in a few strides, and dropped her rather unceremoniously.

She shot him a dark look, but he only raised his eyebrows.

“Just being time-efficient.”

Once he was out of his clothes, he joined her on the bed. The mattress dipped under the pressure of her knees when she moved over him, taking him in for a moment before she lowered herself onto him. A shaky sigh escaped her. Eist made no sound, but she saw his eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment before he willed them open again. So many years, and he still looked at her with that soft wonder, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d found her. She would never admit it, but she knew what that felt like.

Her hands wandered over his shoulders to his neck, feeling his pulse throb against her fingers to the same rhythm as the unhurried roll of her hips when she began to move. His blue eyes were dark now as he looked up at her, his pupils blown wide with want, and she held his face in her hands, letting her nose brush against his, a silent request that said _keep looking._

The thing about a long-time love affair was, there were no secrets. The early stages were exciting, new, and Calanthe had never been one to say no to a challenge or a thrill, but she liked control more, liked knowing just which levers to press to get the desired result.

That was her sense of power, to know she had figured out exactly how to get what she wanted. And sometimes, what she wanted was to give him what he wanted. She proved her own point when she caught his earlobe between her teeth, finally drawing a moan from him.

She smirked, and gasped when he shifted underneath her and she suddenly found an angle that made the muscles in her thighs tremble and her hands held onto his shoulders tighter, using them for support to force herself to keep going.

Only when her own movements began to stutter did she cave, head falling back and her eyes squeezing shut. Through the haze she could feel his hands coming to her hips, finding the rhythm for her, pushing up into her with a bit more force and his beard scratching against her exposed neck when he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the length of it.

He came shortly after she did, the pulsing of her walls drawing out his own climax.

For a few moments, they remained like that, him holding her close, and her face pressed into the hollow of his neck. Gradually, she could feel the rise and fall of his chest abate and she brushed her lips over the slope of his shoulder, peppering it with feather light kisses while she waited for her own breath to even and her heartbeat to slow.

Her wandering lips found the puckered scar, right beneath his collarbone — a token of his duty, when he stepped in between her and a well-aimed arrow — and she placed a small kiss there, too.

Finally, when the sweat began to cool on their skins and made her shiver did Eist lie back on the bed, pulling her with him and she settled with her head in that little space where shoulder met chest while his arm wrapped around her, running his fingers through her hair and over the length of her arm. From time to time, she could feel his breath on her skin when he leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head.

She could have dozed off like this, in his warm embrace, but there was something nudging at the back of her mind since this afternoon that she could not seem to shake off.

"Want to tell me what's going on in that restless head of yours —" Eist's voice, barely more than a low hum, broke the silence after a while"— or ponder on it quietly until you may or may not fall asleep?"

 _No secrets,_ she thought wryly. If she knew the levers in his body then he knew the tells in hers. And the truth was, if there was anyone she could ask and trust their answer, it was him; so she took a breath.

“In theory…if a _bellum sacrum_ is what God wills, does it make one unchristian to refuse?”

His thumb stilled as he took a moment to contemplate her question.

“War is war,” he said after a beat. “It is always ugly, and it is always meant to benefit those who wage it." His calloused hands resumed their unhurried patterns over her skin. "War is a necessary reality, but it is rarely just, and I don't believe that it can ever be holy.” 

“You’ve fought in wars,” she pointed out, "but you don't believe in good causes?”

His chest rose and fell beneath her, one, two, three times before he replied.

“We all bleed the same blood.”

She did not know how to respond. Eist was so different from most of the clerics she had to deal with — he was just as devout and god-fearing as them, but he also showed a great deal more humility and compassion. When the monks at court advised her on religious matters, she was never quite certain of their agenda. But for him, everything appeared so simple; like a compass that could not help but point North he had a perspective on the world that was intertwined with morals which he applied to commoners and kings alike.

"What brought this on?" he asked suddenly, straining his neck to get a better look at her.

"The Archbishop questions my motives for refusing to participate in this war." Eist brows furrowed, so she explained, "According to him, my heritage is clouding my judgement and corrupting my loyalties."

She remembered her own irritation at the bishop's insinuations, but seeing Eist's outrage on her behalf almost made it worth it.

"That son of a —"

Calanthe cleared her throat loudly, for his sake. The Archbishop was still a man of the church, and Eist might regret uttering curses against him. She herself applied equal treatment to every subject of her irritation.

“The clerics can dig as low as they want against me, I do not scrabble for their approval. But my son, he’ll need them on their side. I cannot allow these sentiments to spill over, it’s too early into his reign." She nuzzled back into him, let her arm snake further over his chest where she began to draw invisible and unintelligible symbols.

"Has he given you word when he'll return?"

She shook her head. "Soon, I presume. Has your nephew?"

"Crach? Not even sure the boy knows how to write," he joked and Calanthe snorted.

She felt him place another kiss to her hairline, and then the scratching of his beard when he playfully rubbed his chin against her.

"Coram has proven that he's no longer the boy king he once was," Eist said, sounding thoughtful. "He's a man now, mature enough to rule England."

She hummed.

"Mature enough to get married, too."

Her fingers paused and she felt something in her chest swell uncomfortably with anticipation.

"I suppose so," she forced herself to say, to move her fingers again, hoping he would not continue to where she feared this was going.

Today was not that kind of day, it seemed.

"We can finally be wed, then. You and me."

His voice sounded so soft, so warm and hopeful. She felt overwhelmed all of a sudden, extracting herself from him quickly to sit up and playing it off by brushing her long hair out of her face and over her shoulders.

" _Greedy,"_ she pressed out. "Are you saying you're not satisfied with the way things are now?" She tried to tease, but even to her own ears the words sounded rushed.

She shivered when his knuckles connected with her skin, beginning to ghost up and down her spine, and she pulled the linen sheet closer to her chest.

"Maybe I am greedy," he agreed. Even with her back turned to him she could hear him smiling. "Stealing moments and sneaking around was fun when we were younger. Now, I just wish to be with you, at any given hour, without the shame and tribulations attached to it. To fall asleep next to you and wake up the same way, without rush. Without knowing that we're running on borrowed time. So yes, love, I am greedy," he concluded, "but mostly too old for this, and tired."

Something inside of her yearned at his words, something soft, and naive.

"We will always run on borrowed time," she said, breathlessly. "Why change what we have now, when there is so much unrest at court?"

There was a pause, where all she could hear was her own heart beating against her ribs. Then —

"You said the right time would be when Coram was old enough to rule on his own." The softness had not yet disappeared from his voice, but it was decidedly flat now, and just like that the weight of the conversation shifted.

She did not know what to say, so she clutched the sheet tighter, the white linen crumpling beneath her fists. She felt the mattress dip and knew he had sat up properly, too, now.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Eist asked quietly. "Is that what this is about?"

"No," she replied, sharper than intended. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Am I? Being ridiculous?" he countered, any softness from his voice finally gone. "Thirteen years ago, we both agreed that it was too soon after your late-husband's death to make anything official. To my first proposal, you said we should wait until Coram turned fourteen, which we did. Then you told me you wanted to wait until Pavetta was wed. Afterwards, it was until we'd know Coram was ready to fully step into his role as King. And now you say it is still not the right time, so tell me, Calanthe, what am I supposed to think?"

"I don't know," she snapped and pushed herself out of the bed. The fireplace was almost dark now, and she shivered against the cool night air, even with the linen sheet she wrapped tightly around her chest as she stepped towards the window — anything to avoid Eist's face, the disappointed look in his eyes.

During his entire speech, he had not once raised his voice, but her own insides were boiling. Not with anger, but _something_.

(If only she had a name for the things she felt.)

Calanthe was not a naive little woman. There were reasons, so many reasons why remarrying would have been a bad idea, might still be a bad idea. A peasant girl had the luxury of simplicity, but not a queen, and even less so a queen mother. It was impossible to foresee all the consequences a choice like that might conjure.

She was afraid what would happen if she said yes.

She was afraid of what would happen if she didn't.

Calanthe knew she was the reason he had no wife, no children. She took greedily everything he offered her, which was — everything. And he demanded nothing in return, only ever asked. Time and time again, even when she refused. Would there be a time when what she gave in return would not be enough? Or, worse, when he stopped asking.

"Calanthe." Eist's mild-rough voice seeped through her stream of thoughts. "Calanthe, look at me."

She turned back to him, let her gaze drag over the cold floor first, before slowly raising it to meet his own eyes.

There was... disappointment on his face, but no anger, no resentment. (Not yet, a small voice whispered.)

And sadness. She wanted to reach out and brush it away, find the twitching lips and twinkling eyes underneath that expression that was too grim, too serious.

She did not know what he saw on her own face, but his features softened.

"Come back to bed," he said gently, "and we shall speak no more of this."

The last ember flickered and died down.


	3. Le roi est mort

Fog had gathered on the grounds below her room, and she watched it drift quietly while her lady-in-waiting worked on her hair, winding strand for strand around her nifty fingers and turning them into a braid. Up, today, not down her back.

There was moisture collecting around the edges of the window. It must have rained tonight, she thought dully. She had not noticed. She had not noticed when Eist had left, either. It had been nearly impossible to fall asleep, but he must have waited, stayed with her and awake until she had finally drifted off. He had kept his word — after she had crawled back into bed, neither of them had said anything. It was not a conversation she had wanted to finish and yet, not knowing what he was thinking and how he was feeling, when he always wore his heart on his sleeve for her, made her feel... restless.

They rarely fought. One time, she’d seen him snap a man’s neck with his bare hands like it was nothing but a fishbone. It had been endlessly fascinating to her, to see the damage they could do, to know what they were holding back, intentionally and instinctively — not once had they flexed in anger when she drove him wild with her stubbornness and temper, and she’d never found a single bruise on her body from where they’d dug themselves into her skin when she’d done everything to drive him wild in a wholly other sense of the phrase. They would never break her, she knew; but she began to wonder if she could truly return the favour. 

A rattling behind them startled Calanthe out of her thoughts, and her lady-in-waiting let out a surprised shriek. When she turned she saw the servant girl, who had come in to clear away her breakfast, already crouching on the floor, seemingly ready to dive under the bed.

"Dropped the knife," the girl muttered, a little high-pitched.

Calanthe blinked slowly.

"Leave it," she said. "In fact, leave. You too, Anne" she addressed the other woman, "I can manage alone from here."

Lady Anne nodded, and pulled the other girl with her out the door.

Calanthe rose to her feet, tightened the cord around her waist and placed a circlet over her braids, before she, too, stepped out into the hallway and instantly paused when she saw that Eist was already waiting for her there. Two guards stood on either side of the door, so she acknowledged him merely with a brief nod.

"Sir Eist."

His blue eyes flickered over her face,

"Good morning, your majesty. I will escort you today."

She gave another nod and started walking. _I will escort you today_ generally meant two things — either he had gotten intel that led him to believe it was safer to keep a close eye on her, or (and that was much more often the case) he simply wanted to walk with her, enjoy the few minutes before they were both swept away by duties. She didn't ask, and he didn't say. In fact, neither of them said anything for a while. Usually the silence was comfortable... today she was not so sure.

The corridor she took was long and flanked by pillars on one side and a wall on the other — light and shadows fell in contrary columns over the stones, each of her steps bringing her from one into the other. She enjoyed these parts of the castle in the morning. Only a few important people had access to them, and the servants had a way of staying discreetly in the backgrounds. Most days, nobody bothered her before court, because most people knew what was good for them.

"Your majesty," a voice came from the corridor to the right, and Calanthe turned to it with a poorly feigned smile plastered on her face. Unfortunately for her, Lord Stregobor was the rare exception. 

"I bid you a good morning." The politeness in his words dripped with insincerity.

"And you, my lord," she returned dryly. It was not that he did not know better, she was sure. It was the opposite — he simply could not pass up a chance to irritate her. But she supposed every castle needed their own version of a poltergeist to put up with.

“Were yesterday’s talks with the clergy successful?” 

Calanthe dipped her chin, twisting her lips into a humorless smile. Yes, he most definitely enjoyed it, seeing her struggle with keeping the Archbishop and his followers in check. It had been clear the other day when he’d watched their argument in the chapel and it was clearer now, standing close enough to him that she could see the malicious glee flickering in those pale eyes of his.

“We are always successful,” she retorted in a clipped tone.

She had barely taken a step past him before he said, loud enough for her to hear: "I sincerely hope you're not letting _certain_ rumors get to you, your majesty. Surely they’re merely... misguided concerns.”

Calanthe paused mid-stride, before turning back to him slowly.

Stregobor was standing between her and her guard now. Eist took a step forward as well, but she motioned him to halt, hand barely raised — he still noticed.

Nothing about Stregobor’s voice or expression made him seem anything but civil, blasé. But his eyes were fixed on her in an unblinking stare, and she knew she was being taunted. Baited. 

He wanted her to bite? _Fine, she would bite._

“Meaning?”

“Little things one can overhear here and there.The common people love their Sintran princess, of course, but some voices at court question whether England’s interests and, how do I say, Christian values can truly align with those of someone who is not,” he paused, “actually English.” 

The muscles in her jaw flexed. Over Stregobor's shoulder, she could see Eist shift, watching their exchange with rapt attention. She wasn't sure how much he could hear of what was being said, but he could see it plain as day in her body language, if the tension in his shoulders was anything to go by, and his hand rested remarkably close to the hilt of his sword.

“My good Lord Stregobor,” she said calmly. “After twenty five years of breathing English air and partaking of the English,” she paused and let out a snide chuckle, “We would hate to call it ‘cuisine’, Our insides must but as English as the rest of you. Were We to be cut open after our death, they would find nothing but dry wheat and meat."

Then, she lowered her voice. Gone was the nonchalant sing-sang she used for court. "I am no Sintran princess anymore, my lord," she whispered. "I am the Queen of England, and my son, King. So you can treat me as such, or fuck off.” 

Stregobor’s face slackened further, any taunt turning into something colder, harder.

"It would be wise, your majesty, to walk humbly,” he said, his voice an articulated murmur. “One day you might find yourself on your knees, and you should hope your begging is to be met with good graces."

She stilled — half-amused, half-enraged. Calanthe was no stranger to kneeling. She knelt in front of god, to pray and repent; of her son, the king, to render homage; and Eist, to... well. Rarely had she knelt with humility, and not once had she knelt out of humiliation.

She took a deliberate step towards him, and leaned in. He was so close she could smell the dried lavender on his clothes.

"If the day comes where We will kneel before you, it is because you will have Us struck down first. And then, that We promise you, you will be the one who will have to beg."

The muscles around Stregobor's eyes twitched. That was the only indication he gave of the scorn she knew he felt, but she paid it no mind, simply took a languid step back without taking her eyes off him, before she turned and continued her way, leaving him standing in the hallway.

Eist caught up easily with her, despite her long and forceful strides.

"You should not give in to his provocations," he muttered, (there were still other guards posted along the corridor, he was well aware), "and let yourself be tempted into these spats."

"Oh, but they are so fun," she replied dryly, never slowing her steps.

She rounded the next corner and stepped out into an inner courtyard. The lawn was sodden from tonight's rain, and the smell of wet grass filled the air.

"I mean it, your majesty," Eist said while he followed her detour across the yard. "I don't like the way he looks at you. There's something... hateful about it."

"That is because he hates me, Eist. And the feeling is mutual. It is curious though..." She slowed her steps, a thought pushing itself to the front of her mind. "'Rumors', he called it. I believe the word he was looking for was _incitement_. Stregobor and the Archbishop, one of them is intentionally breeding bad blood. The question is, which one?"

 _And why_. 

Eist halted, suddenly, forcing her to do the same.

"Stay away from them, for my sake?" There was no humor in the expression on his face, it was serious and grim. She remembered the tension in his shoulders, his hand ready to grasp his sword, and finally, she acquiesced.

"Fine. If it would make you sleep better at night."

"It would."

She could not help it, a teasing smirk ghosted over her face and she cooed, "You poor, noble thing, to be pledged to such a willful woman as myself."

He lifted his face heavenwards and she could see a smile that seemed heavier than she would have liked.

"I chose you, did I not?" he breathed. "And I would do it again —" Relief fell from her like a weight she had not known had been there in the first place at his words, his affirmation. They were good, no matter what had happened yesterday, they were still good. "— which does not mean I am not exasperated, mind you," he added, finally lighter-hearted, and her smile turned into a grin.

"Good," she drawled. "I would have questioned your good senses if you weren't."

She was still grinning and the first hints of warmth flooded his features again when his blue eyes met hers. Fine lines crinkled around the corners, and she wondered if he could see similar changes in her, testaments of times gone by. His age looked good on him, she noted — against all odds and reason, he seemed to get finer by the years.

Instinctively, she threw a glance over her shoulder. Four guards were standing only a few feet away, just barely out of earshot, and most definitely right in their line of vision. But oh was she tempted...

"Not here," Eist murmured, amused.

Calanthe blinked. "I know," she said, a little bit more defensive than sensible for someone who tried to pretend they hadn't just thought about kissing their secret lover out in the open.

Eist didn't seem to mind. If anything, he appeared considerably pleased all of a sudden.

"You know —" he said slowly, a thoughtful frown appearing on his face, and she tilted her head at him curiously, "— I think... that you are going to be so late for court."

"Fuck."

* * *

Court was always a tedious affair. Its only redeeming quality was watching Calanthe be her best and worst self, depending entirely on the perspective. With her sharp mind, sharper tongue and natural ease for being the center of attention, she was all but meant to sit on a throne. It was no understatement to say that her influence of the late King Roegner had shaped England's political landscape significantly and that it had been her who had helped stabilise England's socio-economic issues, and thus, Roegner's reign.

Her people skills, however, were a different matter. Calanthe was many things, but patient was not one of them, and she had zero tolerance for idiots — unfortunately, court was full of them.

Eist knew for a fact that she had not grown more patient over the years, but she handled them differently now than as a younger queen, when she had carried her temper on her tongue. She'd bared her teeth like a lion, then. Nowadays, Calanthe looked more like a cat toying with mice for her own entertainment, which, God forgive him, he shouldn't enjoy watching this much.

"Their ambassador reports to me how much the Danish people love Pavetta."

"Of course they do, she's a darling.“

"But King Erik is hesitant about joining into the negotiations without taking the Pope into consideration first."

Eist watched the queen's head tilt to the side with a passionate roll of her eyes, before turning her attention back to her minister.

"You may let the King know We will make sure nothing shall go over Rome's zucchetto," she told him and raised her eyebrows in a way that clearly meant _'Happy?'_

Apparently, he was. When the minister retreated, she turned her head slightly in Eist's direction and muttered through half-clenched teeth, "I have no desire to steal his papal thunder." She puffed out a breath through her nose. "My ambition is entirely profit-oriented."

"I know," he hummed. "And yet that is what they'll believe if you draw out this treaty yourself in the name of England instead of leaving it to Rome."

She huffed, but did not disagree.

Was she playing a game of cat and mouse with him, too? he wondered suddenly. It was an unwelcome thought.

He had not wanted to believe it, that persistent feeling that she was avoiding the topic, had told himself over and over again that she was influenced by nothing but good sense. Since yesterday, however, he was certain: She was deferring a public commitment to him, definitely, and possibly, indefinitely — for reasons that he neither fully understood, nor were based solely on practical matters.

This realisation unsettled him, more than he was willing to admit even to himself.

For a moment last night in her bed he had pictured himself getting up, leaving for good. It had felt like something from a bad dream, and yet more concrete than ever before when the thought had hit him that there was the chance that she would never want to take that final step, for reasons she kept to herself, deeply locked away between her ribs. It had frustrated him, that after all these years she still could not open up to him and his mind had jumped to the most painful conclusions, trying to fathom what could possibly hold her back when his own feelings on that matter were so clear. 

He could have gotten up and left. But one look at her face and all his irritation had melted away. Just like that.

Because it was so obvious, so painfully obvious, how she was two nations at war with each other; always clashing, always in conflict. And at the end of the day, more than anything he wanted to soothe the turmoil, not add to it. A knight in the game, jumping in front of the King and Queen, at any given time.

He hoped it would be enough, that one day, that would be enough. The question was, what would happen if it wasn't.

"Your majesty, the Earl of Surrey is here." The page's announcement brought him back to the room.

"Again?" Calanthe breathed out, expression somewhere between incredulous and annoyed. "What could possibly be the matter now?"

“Be nice, your majesty,“ Eist murmured, amused as they both watched the guards step aside to make way for the queen's next visitor.

She made an irritated sound at the back of her throat and flicked her wrist dismissively, all accompanied by another eye roll. She really was not subtle, this one. He loved her for it, that was the truth. The expressiveness, the vibrant energy, the depth to her mind and soul that held beauty and terror and endless contradictions were what had drawn him to her in the first place, and after two decades, they still did not do short to amaze him.

She proved his point by switching from irritated to the brightest, toothiest smile so fast it might as well have given him whiplash when the man in question stepped towards her and dropped to one knee.

“Sir William,“ she purred,“how wonderful to see you.“

“It is good of you to see me, your majesty,“ the earl replied. "I have come here with an urgent matter."

Calanthe's smile widened from honey to wolf. "We have no doubt."

The man got up from the floor at her indication and Calanthe used the moment to turn to Eist briefly and raise her eyebrows.

 _Touche_ , he thought, ducking his head with an amused and soundless chuckle, _she could be very nice… when she wanted to be._

Eist was still smiling when it happened.

There was a commotion outside the doors and both Eist and Calanthe tensed up immediately. Eist's hand flew to the hilt of his sword while Calanthe sat up straighter and gripped the armrests of her chair, little creases appearing where her eyebrows furrowed together.

"Let me through," a young man's voice rang through, and a moment later he stumbled into the room and fell to his knees.

"Your majesty," he gasped. "I come with grave news from France. Your son —"

The rest of his words drowned out when Eist looked to the queen and his heart broke for her. Calanthe had gone white as a sheet. Not a single muscle moved on her face, but her hands, he noticed, her hands clutched the wooden chair with such force that her knuckles poked out, like bones from a skeleton.

The man was still talking while Calanthe sat still like a statue, and Eist wished, more than ever before, that he could tell everyone to shut up and leave, to offer comfort to Calanthe right here, right now, like a husband could; not having to stand by and watch her suffer quietly because she would never allow anyone to see her as anything less than a queen.

Calanthe heard her own blood pound in her ears, the voice of the messenger fading in and out, catching only scraps and pieces of his words.

 _Numb_. That was what she was feeling. She should be crying, fall on her knees and weep, howl and wail like a child, all pride and decorum forgotten because her boy was gone... dead. Fallen on a sodden field in France, and she would never see his sweet smile again. And yet, there seemed to be this fog wavering around in her mind, settling in her limbs with the weight of lead.

"What about his body?" Had her voice ever sounded this hollow, this flat?

"We don't have it."

_It._

If only she could weep, to release the burning she could feel clearly behind her eyes, pour it all out and drown in it. Anything but to feel so helplessly numb. She blinked rapidly against the dryness in her eyes, and it did nothing to ease the discomfort.

More noise came from the door and it was Lord Stregobor who stepped through, escorted by armed men she did not recognise as her own.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked him, and her numbness turned into anger, hot, flaring, wonderful anger as she jumped up from her throne.

"Your majesty," he said, "my deepest condolences for the loss of your son, our beloved King."

"Strange condolences, to be brought here with the company of soldiers," she spat.

He smiled, and she wanted to claw it off his face, have his body thrown into the Themes, throw him in herself.

"Strange condolences for strange circumstances. It appears that England finds herself without a King."

She shook her head firmly, a nightmarish suspicion twisting and sinking down on her with the blunt force of reality.

"Not you," she pressed out.

"No?" he asked, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Who else then, you?" He gave her a vile smirk. "I don't think so. Two decades ago, it was between Roegner and me. The throne should have gone to me then, and it _will_ go to me now."

He was prepared, shot through her head. How long had he been prepared? Waiting, like a rat in its hole, ready to feed off the carcass. The thought made her feel sick.

Stregebor's smirk widened, and she saw him give a nod with his head, the men around him beginning to stir. At the same time, she saw movement from the right corner of her eye and Eist stepped forward, sword half drawn now.

The other guards remained still. Following the exchange silently. (Waiting for the outcome. Pawns, dully moving in but one direction, not caring who commanded them.)

"Ah, yes. Sir Eist, the good Head of our King's Guard," Stregobor chirped. "I am glad you are here. This way I can give you the opportunity to swear fealty, right here, right on the spot, to your new King."

Eist glared at the man with unconcealed disdain.

"I can make no such oath," he said plainly, "for I have already pledged my loyalty to a crown, and it is not yours."

There was no outrage on Stregobor's face, not even disapproval. If anything, he looked... pleased; like this was just what he'd expected, and suddenly Calanthe knew: He was weeding out, bad seed from good seed, and he knew exactly where to look first.

"Guards," Stregobor said, voice thin and light, "take him away."

For the briefest moment, their eyes met. She felt herself shift, a step half taken, before, barely noticeably, he shook his head. Then forceful hands reached out for him and pulled him away, and she was left alone, in her own castle that had suddenly turned into a prison.

* * *

Eist had been in the Tower many times, but never on this side of the bars. He wondered if anyone else was here whom he knew. Who else had refused their oath, had shown resistance? 'If you know a ship is sinking, the best thing you can do is get off, little brother,' Brandon had told him. 'Loyalty will get your head cut off.' Two days later Bran had ridden out to war in Scotland, and never returned.

He would be right after all, Eist mused, letting his head fall back against the grimy wall. And yet, even now in this cell he could not say that he would have done anything differently. Were he to choose again, he would swear his loyalty to the House of Raven any time because he knew that no one deserved this kind of dedication more.

It was what had enamored him entirely, once he'd found it beneath layers of masked words and aloofness — a lion-heart, that loved and protected fiercely. In her core, Calanthe was just as loyal to a fault as he was; she just hid it better, this dangerous flaw in a world as unpredictable and opportunistic as theirs.

She was better at this game, he told himself. Smarter, more calculating. She would be okay.

He repeated the last thought like a mantra.

There was a shuffling noise coming from the ground before him, and when he looked down, he saw a rat scrabbling over the straw and dirt on the floor. It halted by his right food, its little snout wiggling as it sniffed around it.

The black pearl eyes peeked at him curiously. It showed no sign of fear, which told Eist that he was by far the first person this little fellow had met here. (And how many of them had it seen die here, too, Eist wondered).

The cold was beginning to creep in. There was a dampness in this cell that seemed to seep through the walls and the ground he was sitting on, and through the narrow slot in the wall, (barely even counting as a window), he heard the soft pattering of rain.

His head fell back against the wall, and he closed his eyes, trying to block out the cold and the dampness and the quiet scratching of the rat before his feet. What he couldn’t block out were his thoughts, endlessly reeling like a spinning wheel.

Was that how Calanthe was feeling, what it was like to be in her brilliant and tirelessly-working head? He hoped she found some sleep tonight. But who would calm the storm in her, ground her, when he was gone.

His thoughts drifted involuntarily to Coram, King Coram, whom he’d known since he was a little boy with bright eyes that always twinkled with the promise of mischief and a smile that got him out of it. He'd been a handful, for sure, but always kind, always sweet, always worth protecting. And now dead. 

His throat tightened. 

Everything could change from one moment to another. There was an irony to it. Only yesterday, he'd wondered — if only for one fleeting second — what a life without Calanthe would look like, after realising she might never be ready to get remarried. Today, fate seemed to have made that choice for him. Was that it? Was that the last time he'd seen her face? What were the last words he'd said to her? There had to be so many things still left unspoken —

A distant thud made him look up. At first, everything seemed unchanged. The halls were dark, the only light coming from the flickering torch on the opposite wall, throwing spooky shadows against the stones. Apart from that, nothing moved. Then he realised what was missing: The guard outside of his cell was gone. Possibly a change of shifts, he mused.

Suddenly, the cell door swung open. Eist squinted through the sparsely lit room. For a long heartbeat, he was certain he was seeing a ghost. The shadow was smaller than him, but oddly shaped, and with a black, blank space where a face should be — then Eist noticed that his mysterious visitor was wearing a hood which they had pulled down to cover half their face. Only the chin was visible in the flickering lights from the torch outside the cell. The large cloak reached down to their ankles.

Not a ghost, then.

There was a moment where neither of them moved or said a word; but then the hooded figure gave a brusque, single nod, and Eist jumped to his feet without wasting any more time.

He followed the stranger as they led him through a dark corridor, past a series of cells — all empty — until they turned suddenly and disappeared, right through the wall. Eist hurried his steps and once he reached the point where the stranger had vanished, he saw the dark shaft in the wall. He had to duck his head to fit through.

The shaft turned into a staircase winding itself down. Eist kept his hand on the rough stone wall as he followed the person's steps, echoing dully in the hollow space. It was pitch black, and more than once did his head scratch against the low ceiling.

He thought he could hear the sound of metal and wailing through the walls, sounding both far away and very close, but he kept walking, step for step for step, deeper into the hole, until he was hit by a sudden breeze of fresh air.

The stranger led him along the Themes. Numbly, Eist could feel the water seep through his shoes as he sank into the muddy riverbank with each step but he paid it no mind, too cautious of not making any loud noises, and of where his unexpected rescuer was leading him. He kept a close eye on their back as they walked, still not sure if he could trust them, but following them regardless.

The stranger took another turn, and they rounded to what Eist recognised as the Southern wall of the palace. Here, they paused, but when Eist did the same the hooded head jerked to the side, indicating him to go on.

He did, warily.

His eyes flickered over the area, and he listened for any suspicious sounds as he made his way closer to the castle. The grounds lay still and quiet, and the pale light of the moon threw long shadows across the lawn.

Why did the stranger bring him here? Eist wondered, and startled abruptly when he saw something move from the corner of his eye. Another figure had appeared out of the shadows of the low arch, quiet like a cat, but when the sparse light hit their face, he recognised the angular shape and dark eyes.

He was by her side in a heartbeat. Maybe it was madness, or sheer relief that washed over him to be able to hold her but when he reached her he wrapped his arms around her, and Calanthe returned the hug with a kind of desperation he did not know from her.

"Are you all right?" he asked the moment he pulled away, lifting a hand to her chin to tilt it slightly so that he could check for any sign of injury. He was relieved to find none. At least physically, she seemed unharmed.

"I'm fine," she replied quickly and threw a glance over her shoulder into the darkness, before turning back to him. "We don't have much time, so listen to me. Stregobor wants you gone, he has already set your execution for tomorrow morning, so you must leave London, tonight.“

He nodded, not surprised. So she had sent his unexpected saviour, and had sneaked her way past her own guards — heaven knew how! Calanthe Fiona Riannon, she would go down in history, this one.

"I figured he'd move fast and meticulously, before anyone can organise a counterstrike," Eist replied. He raised his eyes to the sky, counting the hours in his head. "If we leave now, we could make it to Tilbury at sunrise. And —“

"Eist —“

"— from there we could find a ship, then travel to the mainland, or further North —"

"I'm not coming, Eist," she interrupted him.

"What?“ he asked, sure he had not heard her right.

"I'm not coming," she repeated quietly, but firmly. Leaving no room for doubt.

He shook his head.

"Why?" was the only word he could breathe out, feeling like his soul left with it.

"It's not part of the deal.“

His eyes flickered over her shoulder to where she had looked earlier and it was then that he noticed the man looming close to the wall behind her. Sir Danek had stayed in the background, but now that Eist was looking directly at him, he shifted a little, and gave him a curt nod.

Eist did not return it. It made sense now, why Calanthe had been able to come down here without anybody noticing, how she had side-stepped the guards — she hadn't; she was out on parole, on a vow to return without resistance back to her chambers, to be locked in and at the mercy of an usurper. Accepting her part of the bargain, to save him.

He didn't have a blade on him, he realised, and Danek was broad, but he could take him, he knew it as he felt every fiber of his body come alive with hot determination, pulsing in anticipation. Danek's body stiffened — he'd gotten the message, prepared to respond.

Calanthe's hand reached up and tilted his face back to her with soft force, breaking the tension. Her eyes were beseeching him, and it was impossible for him not to soften when she looked at him with those wide, expressive eyes.

“Eist, listen to me. I will go back to my chambers, and you will leave London and not look back, and that is how this is gonna go.“

He could feel the pad of her thumb brushing over his chin, her other fingers resting against his cheek and neck. It was almost too easy to focus on that feeling and not the words that made every fiber in his body protest.

"Travel to the coast," she continued, "and then take the next ship leaving for Portugal."

"Portugal, why —" He shook his head but Calanthe cut him off.

"Go to Sintra, or Lisboa. There's as many people living there as in London, it will be a simple matter to lay low for a while, start a new life. Both cities are by the sea, which means there will be plenty to do for a former seaman like yourself."

He shook his head again, this time with intent.

"I have no business in Portugal."

"You have no business here, either," she snapped. "Not anymore. On English soil, you are a dead man walking." She raised her chin, and there was a fire dancing in her eyes now. "I am still your Queen, and I command you to go." 

Calanthe watched his face, watched him struggle between his duty to follow her order and his instinct to stay with her. Her own expression turned into something pained, like it took everything from her to say it, but she finally pressed out: “ _Please_. I have already lost my son.”

In the twist of a moment, his shoulders dropped as all fight left him.

"And what will you do?" he asked quietly.

"I'll persevere, same as always. God didn't make me this sharp for nothing."

Despite everything, a breathy chuckle escaped him.

"Quite right," he muttered, and his heart clenched. 

She was so beautiful. He never forgot, not even in the way that seeing someone regularly over a long period of time did to you sometimes. Her eyes looked black like the night, and even under the pale moon there was a blush of hazel on her skin. He wanted to drink her in like a leaf the sun. 

"You need to go," she reminded him gently.

He nodded, but his feet did not move and despite her urging, her hand was still resting against his chest and she seemed to be trying to memorise his face just as much as he hers. Eist was sure she could feel his heartbeat under her palm.

The hand twitched and for a moment, he thought she was going to push, but then her fingers curled into his shirt and her lips crashed into his, pouring more into this one kiss than he knew she could ever say with words.

It only lasted a few seconds before they broke apart, and he pressed his forehead against hers, his hands coming up to cup her face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. Tried to take in everything in this haste — the softness of her skin, her scent, the angles of her face, so much sharper now than ten years ago. He's memorised them a hundred times before, and yet, suddenly he was afraid that he could forget.

She tilted her head to kiss him again briefly.

"Go now," she murmured against his lips.

He threw one last look over his shoulder to where Calanthe was standing, and lingered until her figure disappeared into the dark shadows of the castle. That was the last he saw of her before he turned and set out into the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not to be cheesy but thank you so much for reading 💙


	4. Mother of Misfits

A storm haunts the night. The wind howls and moans as it sweeps around the castle, rattling at the wooden window shutters and the rain whips against the bricks. She snuggles back, closer to the warm body behind her, and his arm immediately tightens around her in response.

She can feel his beard scratching against the skin of her neck when he nuzzles into her. It is still fairly young, this thing between them, and she does not understand how it can feel so natural, so familiar at the same time. It's easy, even when it should be anything but. He makes everything more easy, more bearable, because that is what he wants for her. 

The reality is different, though. And there has never been any use in pretending it wasn’t.

“You should have told me,“ she says into the darkness, waits.

“I know.“

It surprises her, his response; she has expected something else. Defensiveness perhaps, or condescension. A _'nothing to worry about, I took care of it'_ , and there is no reason why you should have to know about it at all, handle it with that frail, little woman-heart of yours.

“Why didn't you?“

He takes another moment to reply, shifts a little, contemplates. She turns in his embrace to see his face and finds it serious and troubled. There is a little creak between his brows that makes her want to reach out and smooth it out.

“I couldn't —" he shakes his head, "— find the words to tell you. I didn't want to see the expression on your face when I did."

“It was only a matter of time,” she reminds him softly. “We knew there were people planning attempts on my life. This was one, and there will be others. What use would it be to close my eyes and pretend it was not so?"

He's quiet. She can feel his thumb mindlessly stroking over her ribcage, back and forth while he thinks. He does not agree with her seemingly nonchalant acceptance, she knows, does not think she should have to bear the knowledge that her life was fleeting, that it could end one moment or the other through violent force.

“Don’t hide things from me. This is my castle, I will find out eventually. And I would much rather hear it from you.“ 

It's as much of a confession as she's willing to give. To admit that she is not as unaffected by this as she pretends to be, would like to be. And that in those moments where she is forced to face her own mortality she would rather have him with her, who does not see her as lesser for a moment of vulnerability, who she trusts with that weakness more than anybody else. She doesn't say any of this, but she hopes he knows.

"All right," he concedes, his eyes turning milder as they meet hers. "No secrets."

"Good." 

The tips of her fingers brush over his chin with reverent affection. She knows his concern is not rooted in him thinking her flawed and weak, but because he would do anything to avoid causing her grief. She cherishes him for it, thinks she might love him even. Still, she feels the need to clarify: "I'm not helpless, you know?"

She raises her eyebrows at him, challenging him to disagree.

"Of course you're not," he says, and even in the dark she can see his eyes twinkle. "You have me."

He yelps and catches her wrist when she pinches him for his quip, moves half over her and pins it to the bed next to her head and she rolls her eyes with warm exasperation. He might chose to turn around her words for his own entertainment, but she knows, too, that it was half a joke, and entirely true.

He can see it on her face, that love and reluctant amusement she feels for him, because he let's go of her wrist and raises his hand, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, let's his hand linger to graze over her cheek.

“You’re not alone in this, Calanthe,” he says, voice warm and rough. “I’ll never let anyone harm you, or Coram, or Pavetta, I promise. You have me, all the way.”

She woke up with a shudder to a dead silent dawn. Instinctively, her hand reached out to the space beside her to find it cold and empty. Of course it was, she chided herself. She was alone and he was gone – hopefully far away, across the sea to a place that was warmer and _safe_.

There was a burning in her eyes, so she lifted her hand to rub away the sleepiness from them and was surprised to find them wet. It was on her cheeks, too, and she quickly wiped away any traces of dampness, unwilling to admit to herself what it was.

The hairs on her body rose when she threw back the blankets and the cool air of the room hit her skin. She padded over to the small basin and cupped the water from it, enjoying the feeling of it on her face. Cool droplets ran down her neck, but she did not care to dry them away.

Her own reflection was looking back at her, pale and distorted, and she knew she could not blame the dim light of the castle for the dark shadows underneath her eyes. She looked tired. Sleep did not come easy to her these days. 

She pinched her cheeks, maybe a little bit more punishingly than necessary, to bring some colour back into them. She refused to let her body give away just how exhausted she was, and grief was not a luxury she could afford either. Not when she was on her own and there was an usurper on the throne. She needed to stay sharp and alert for now. There would be time to mourn her son; (later, she reminded herself — later).

Calanthe was this close to climbing up the walls. It had been five days since the news of her son’s death, Eist’s escape, her own imprisonment, five days of being confined to her own chambers, with only her lady-in-waiting being allowed to enter. She pranced up and down the room like a lion in a cage, throwing glances out of the window occasionally, looking for... fuck if she knew. No one was coming. She was entirely on her own.

And hadn't that always been the case? She'd been alone, a girl of merely 17 years when she'd come to England, knowing neither customs nor language. And when her husband had proven weak of mind and unable to make decisions, she'd stepped up, carrying the kingdom on her own two shoulders. She'd always been alone.

 _Not true,_ a small voice interjected. _Not true at all._

Eist had promised her that he would stand by her and her children through all troubles to come, and for thirteen years, he had. Until now. She was not angry, not even a little bit. She’d always known he had made a promise that night that he couldn’t keep, no matter the effort. Some things were unbendable even to the strongest will — she would know, because she tried.

Now she was on her own, and there was no use crying about it. 

There was a knock on the door, which Calanthe readily ignored. If it was Anne, she would know to enter without invitation after quickly announcing herself. If it was anybody else, they could just as well fuck off.

The door creaked a little as it swung open.

"Good morning, milady."

Calanthe turned at the unfamiliar voice and looked at a young woman standing in the doorway. Her face was round but pointy at the same time, with round pearly eyes, giving her the impression of a field mouse.

"Who are you?" Calanthe asked, not even attempting in the slightest to hide her hostility.

The girl made a small curtsey with no real deference behind it. 

“Lady Mary de Clare, your grace. Your new lady-in-waiting.”

The wheels in Calanthe’s head immediately began to turn at the mention of the name. Richard de Clare, 3rd Earl of Hertford, nobleman with considerable landholdings in England and Wales, voiced displeasure about the taxation she had decreed a few years back, had shown to be politically neutral unless it concerned him directly. He’d brought his dissatisfaction to her, and she had… brushed him off, quite unceremoniously. She should have given him the courtesy of compromise. _Bad one, Calanthe_ , she berated herself.

Now Stregobor had found a supporter in him, in exchange for favours, naturally. Lower taxation rates, if she had to take a guess. And in return, his daughter would from now on act as her lady-in-waiting, as well as spy and keeper, the little fly on the wall making sure she would not be able to do anything without Stregobor knowing about it.

She should not be so shaken by this. Replacing her own lady-in-waiting with one of their own was a smart move, and cruel, and exactly what she would have done. And yet, it was one more crack in the foundation she was standing on, one more loss of control.

Calanthe decided that she would deal with this girl the same way she dealt with any petty nuisance; she ignored her. When the girl made a move to help her get dressed she shot her a dark look. The girl did not try again.

There was another knock, and this time, she was graced with the unpleasant face of Stregobor.

“Ah, I see you have met Lady de Clare," he said. "I’m sure you will find her most suitable.”

“That remains to be seen.” 

His mouth curled.

"Come, for a walk. You must be tired of this room.“ 

A part of her wanted to decline, pretend her confinement was not getting to her. But there was a breeze coming through the room between the window and the open door, and all she wanted was to follow it.

Stregobor was quiet while they walked down the corridor, turned left, walked further. He was leading, she noticed immediately, and wondered briefly why he had come and where they were going. He offered no explanation, and she was too stubborn to ask. 

Instead, she stepped towards a window, brows furrowing as she watched the city, the ships travelling over the Themes — maybe stalling just a little.

“Looking for something?”

“Merely surprised— ” she replied, “— that the water of the Themes has not turned into blood yet. Is that not how it starts?” She turned to him, eyebrows raised dramatically, and was glad to see his pale eyes twitch.

"You best start to play nice, Calanthe. After all, I am the king now."

"And a rotten apple coated in gold is still rotten," she bit back, tilting her head at him before she resumed their walking.

"Such an unruly woman." Stregobor clicked his tongue as if she were a child. "Always meddling in things she has no business with. Tell me Calanthe, how did you do it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, "she lied through her teeth, voice perfectly even.

Stregobor gave her a humourless smile. He did not believe her. Deep down he knew it had been her doing, Eist's escape from the Tower, even if he didn’t know the specifics which made Calanthe convinced that none of the people in on her machinations that night had told him anything. 

Alley Rat, originally called John Blunt, the man who had broken Eist out of the Tower, had never been a liability, fulfilling even the most tricky and underhanded assignments with unfailing success — for the right amount of payment, and Sir Danek, too, had kept his part of the deal — allowing her out of her chamber to say goodbye to Eist for the promise that she would return into her confinement afterwards without trying to run. She appreciated the risk he’d taken for her, almost enough to forgive him for putting his loyalty to the English throne over his loyalty to her.

So no, Stregobor did not _know_. But he knew.

There was a wickedness gleaming in his eyes, and a small smile began to play around his thin lips that she did not like. Then he shrugged, lightly.

"It is of no concern now,” he said. “We caught the traitor.“

She froze midstep. One time in winter, only a year after she’d arrived in England she had fallen into a pond, broken through the thin layer of ice and had felt the cold water wash over her — it felt like that now.

"It cannot be.“

Stregobor's thin-lipped smile widened.

It couldn't be him, it shouldn't be. He was supposed to be at the port by now, perhaps even on a ship that would take him South. But what if he hadn't made it in time? What if he had never even tried it? 

"If you need proof, then look,“ Stregebor said and stepped aside, opening up her view from the window. Calanthe remained rooted to her spot. She knew this castle, every room, every single corridor like the back of her own hand, and she knew what was outside of that window, and it filled her with dread.

"Come now, don't be shy." 

She took a step forward, her body moving on its own. The side of this castle was facing West, and from this level one had a clear view into the inner ring encircling the entrance into the Tower, a large gate keeping unwanted visitors out, and wanted residents in. It also showed the street leading up to it, cobbled and occasionally flanked with spikes. 

There were three. Two had been there longer, and she was familiar with the subjects whose heads were put on display — after all, it had been her who had given the order to put them there. The third one was new.

Brown, boyish hair. That was the first thing she saw. Her legs began to feel weak, and one hand reached out to the window sill, pressing her fingertips into the cold stone to steady herself. 

She forced herself to look. There was a considerable distance between the window and the gate, it would have been almost impossible to see the faces properly even then, but the more she looked, the more she realised that the face was beaten, disfigured. 

Her other hand pressed against her stomach. 

It was hard to say if it was Eist or not. But her gut, her gut told her it was not. Yes, she thought, taking deep breaths, disfigured or not, she would recognise his face in a heartbeat. She'd woken up and fallen asleep next to it too many times, let her fingers trace the lines and her eye caress the edges. She knew what his face looked like, and this was not it.

But in this moment, she hated Stregobor with a passion, for trying to play mind games with her like this, for aiming so low. And she did not understand why he would go through such trouble.

"Why not just kill me?" she asked. It was a question that had been on her mind a lot for the last days in her chamber. Cell, she corrected herself with another rush of bitterness.

"If the Archbishop of Canterbury had his way, he would call you a witch and have you burned at the stake," he replied smoothly.

"What a beautifully sadistic way to go," she bit back, and raised her chin in defiance, meeting his gaze head-on. She wanted him to see, to know his threats held no power over her, that she would not give him the satisfaction of fear.

He smiled mildly.

"Alas, you are still of value to me, and I prefer more elegant and subtle means. I will let you remain in the palace, where I can keep a close eye on everything you do, and to discourage any form of... rebellion," he finally answered her question. "The last thing we want is to make a martyr out of you, don’t we? But after a year or two, when the people have gotten used to the way things are, and have moved on, I will send you to the farthest place in the North, to a rundown mansion where the winds blow through every crack and the water drips through the roof, and you will be shut off from the outside world, with no human contact but the one servant I'll generously grant you, and I will find joy in the knowledge that you will die forgotten and completely irrelevant."

She had listened to his speech, and each word felt like a weight sinking down on her and expanding within her lungs, pushing all the air from her chest until she felt dizzy.

“You will have to excuse Us,” she pressed out, and turned abruptly. Once the door closed she fell back against it in an instant, pressing her eyes together and drew some deep breaths. 

Now she knew the 'why'. He didn't want her dead, he wanted her broken. Each loss — her son, her crown, the servants she trusted, Eist, Pavetta — each of them supposed to push her over the edge. But she would not be pushed over the edge without baring her claws and putting up a fight.

Suddenly, her eyes snapped open.

_'Keep it close’, he had told her, sliding a slender object into her hand._

_She had looked down to the knife, simple and sharp and had placed it in a little wooden casket, right next to her bed._

_‘I was thinking closer’, Eist had said, nodding towards her thigh._

_That had made her smirk._

_‘We are not that paranoid yet, Sir.’_

_‘Not paranoid’, he’d said softly, ‘— prepared.’_

She crossed the room within seconds and opened the casket on her nightstand, shuffled through the paper, mostly letters from Pavetta, her fingers feeling for the hard object. They found nothing but more paper and then the wooden bottom of the casket.

"It's not there, milady."

She swiveled on her spot, to the mousy nuisance who had just appeared in the doorframe.

“What do you mean?" Calanthe demanded. She was sure her eyes were flashing like drawn blades, but the girl didn't cower.

“The king’s men came and confiscated any sharp objects, as well as your jewelry.”

It was the truth. As Calanthe looked around she saw that not even her letter opener was still on its usual spot on the desk. And neither was the dagger that Eist had given her, and which she had kept in that wooden casket right next to her bed. 

Stregobor had taken precautions, which told her two things: _One,_ he was worried she would find someone to bribe; _two,_ he thought she could do something reckless with a blade. She took some satisfaction from that, knowing that she was at his mercy and he was still scared of what she could do. And he should be.

Her eyes fell on the mousy girl still standing by the door, neither as respectful as she should be or as confident as she pretended to be. Her new lady-in-waiting. 

_Three,_ he wanted her to realise she was isolated, that this was not her palace anymore, the servants not her loyal subjects. He wanted her weak, friendless and alone, to stifle all sparks of rebellion in her. Make her feel hopeless, helpless.

But he had forgotten one deciding factor. Calanthe of Sintra never played nice, she played to win, and for that she always kept another ace up her sleeve. 

It was something he would learn, very very soon.

* * *

Eist did not go to Portugal. 

He had considered it for exactly five seconds before his decision had been made: He would stay, in England, as close to London as possible. He’d tried to justify this decision to himself — that it was his sworn duty to serve and protect the crown, that he would lose his honour if he abandoned his post. That going abroad would make him more of a coward than he already was for running to save his own skin in the first place instead of staying and accepting his fate with his head held high (— until it was chopped off, that is.)

They were good and valid reasons, and none of them were lies, but they were not the true reason why he was staying, either. It was easier to use them as excuses why he shouldn’t leave than face the truth of why he simply could not go: 

Eist would not run and hide and leave Calanthe on her own at the mercy of that power-hungry lunatic Stregobor and the Archbishop with his obsession with a religious war, who seemed more than willing to declare her a heathen and ask for the pope to excommunicate her. He could not abandon her, travel across the ocean and so out of reach he couldn’t make it back in time if he was needed. 

She had told him, then commanded, and even pleaded with him to leave England. It should have been impossible for him to go against her wishes. 

If he got caught… he could only imagine the pain he would cause her, and the anger she would feel if she learned he had put himself at risk by his own stubbornness. Stregobor could call off his own executioner for him, that was for sure.

Well, he would simply have to avoid being captured, then. 

He traveled East, then South, then East again, avoiding roads and people entirely and instead kept to the most troublesome, wildest paths. Three times he almost ran into a small group of men, out and about with too much purpose not to be potentially looking for him. It was almost impossible that Stregobor had not sent search parties out to find him.

It was on the fifth day after he had left London that things changed. He had not eaten or slept properly since he had been taken to the Tower. Maybe that was why he found himself getting more careless.

He woke in the early morning hours after resting his eyes for a short time. His throat was bone-dry and his mouth tasted disgusting, and he was overcome with the sudden need to wash out the taste. The forest was damp from the morning dew, and he collected some droplets still clinging to the leaves, but soon realised it was not enough to ease the burning in his throat. He needed proper water, a pond or a stream or a well. 

The sun was already close to its midpoint when he finally heard the soft gurgling of a stream, and he followed that sound, sometimes stumbling over thorns and roots until he suddenly came out from the thicket into a clearing and found himself face to face with a young woman. A nun, that was his first realisation, judging by her white robe with the black hood. She'd knelt by the stream, but had turned at the sound of the rustling branches, staring at him directly now. Her eyes were a muddy green, and looking at him so entirely unimpressed as if he was a deer that had just appeared out of the woods and not a grown man who probably looked like hell.

Neither of them spoke up for a moment. Eist's exhausted mind was reeling, trying to come up with something to say — fast, and she was mustering him with obvious disinterest. 

They were still staring at each other when the sound of voices reached them, getting louder and closer by the second.

"You better hide," the girl finally said, and simply turned back towards the stream.

He did not need to be told twice. 

Eist disappeared behind a large buckthorn, and not a moment too early. As soon as he'd ducked behind the bush, three men appeared in the clearing. Eist watched them through the leaves.

They were young, maybe in their late twenties, and he did not like the looks on their faces one bit as they noticed the girl by the stream.

“Looks like this morning just got better,” one of them said with a grin. “What is your name, beautiful?”

Eist tensed, preparing himself for stepping in, but the young nun did not seem to care.

“Get lost,” she told them, face scrunched up with distaste. Apart from that she barely acknowledged them.

The man who had spoken up blinked while the others laughed. 

"It is a dangerous business, for a woman to walk all by herself," he said, something else resonating in his words that made Eist’s insides boil. 

“Even if she’s feisty like this one,” another one added.

The girl cocked her head towards the men, before finally rising to her feet.

"I'm not alone," she replied. "God walks with me. And I also carry a knife that I will gladly use to gut you like a pig if you take another step closer."

It was the way she said it, the voice dripping with confidence and how her eyes flared for a second that had something wild in them that made the man falter and hesitate.

He shared a look with his friends, as if trying to reassure himself of their support. 

"If you're wondering if it's worth it," the young woman said and took another step forward, "it's not. But go ahead and try."

It was like watching a very confident goose taking on a much bigger cow, Eist thought. The cow could have trampled the goose easily, but it began to have doubts because the feathered animal was also 22 lb of untamed rage.

Naturally, the goose won.

"Crazy bitch," Eist heard one of them mutter, and then, the voices ebbed off as the men returned to where they came from until there was silence.

"You can come out now," the girl said. When he came round the bush, he saw her kneeling by the water again as if nothing had happened. There was a bucket next to her halfway filled with water, and it was then that he realised she was catching crayfishes. His stomach rumbled loudly at the thought but he ignored it. Manners first, basic instincts later.

“Thank you,” he said to the girl who was paying him no mind. “That was... impressive — and unexpected."

At this, the Sister scoffed. "Why, because I'm a girl?"

"No, because you're a —" He gestured vaguely to her attire.

He could only see half her face from where he was standing, but a smirk appeared on her face that seemed considerably less hostile than before.

"Unless God starts to send immediate strikes of lightning a girl has to learn to look out for herself, nun or not," she declared, finally pushing herself up.

"Quite right," he admitted, and smiled. 

The young nun looked at him for a moment, bucket in hand before she started to march off down a trail heading East without another word. Eist remained standing where he was, rather baffled for a moment before he heard her call, "Well, are you coming or not?" not even looking back. 

After briefly hesitating, Eist hurried to catch up with her.

The girl led them over a path through the forest. Somewhere, he could still hear the gurgling of a stream and he realised he still did not drink anything, his original purpose of seeking out the stream entirely forgotten with the arrival of the men.

While they walked he learned that the young nun’s name was Sister Yennefer — that was all she told him about herself, and she did not ask anything back, which he found odd.

"Do you not want to know who I am?" he asked her as they climbed over the slope of a small hill.

"I couldn't care less."

“Why would you trust someone you only just met and know nothing about?” he asked. It did not make sense for a woman who appeared to be the opposite of naive to trust blindly.

"You’re on the run,” she said, coming to an abrupt halt and turning to face him. “You haven’t had a wash in days judging by the looks of it, and more importantly, the _smell_ ; your clothes are, frankly, in a state but still posh so you used to be important before shit went down and now you have to hide from whoever it is you got on the wrong side of. And,” she concluded, “I’ve never met a single man who hasn’t leered at me, up until now, which makes you either a decent person or the biggest freak of all, but I assume it’s the former. See? I know plenty about you.”

And with that she kept marching on. 

"Should you be taking a fugitive to your convent? That seems like a big risk. I could be dangerous," he pointed out, half in jest, half concerned for the girl's lack of apprehension, which was proven again when she scoffed.

“You’re half-starved and sleep-deprived. In your state, a ten year old child could hunt you down. So just be grateful and stop annoying me.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. 

They reached the hilltop and looked down into a valley, and a small abbey that lay in the middle of it. The grey stone was half grown over by ivy, creeping all the way up to the steeple. The silver cross at the tip of it gleamed in the sunlight.

“Home, sweet home,” Yennefer said sarcastically, but Eist thought it looked lovely.

The abbey lay secluded. Eist assumed there was a village nearby but in this valley, it was just the convent building and the little shacks next to it, no doubt holding small livestock and such. There were apple trees growing on the grounds around the church, and a large maple right next to the entrance. Its leaves whispered softly in the breeze.

For a moment, after London and the Tower and days of struggling through the wild, standing in this little place so far away from everything felt like Eden.

Yennefer put the bucket with the crayfish down and flexed her fingers. They were a little red where the metal handle had dug itself into her flesh.

"Supper will be soon, but you can eat before that. I'll show you where the kitchen is."

She leaned down to pick up the bucket again when somebody said her name. Both of them turned towards the voice.

A woman had just stepped around the corner of the building and was now standing before them, her hands clutched before her stomach in a way that pushed her shoulders back into a straight line. She was short and of slim build but with a face that was so sharp Eist instinctively knew it would be unwise to underestimate her. Her attire was different from Yennefer’s, her habit almost entirely black apart from the wimple and collar, which were white like the girl’s. Eist had no doubt that he had just met the head of this order.

“An explanation, Sister?”

The woman’s eyes flickered between the young nun and himself, travelling over his form and clearly seeing everything Yennefer had noticed earlier. Her lips thinned even further.

Yennefer pushed her chin forward in an almost petulant manner.

"I ran into him on my walk."

“And you brought him back here?” the woman asked.

“Why, was that unchristian of me?” Yennefer had really mastered sarcasm to perfection, and was not afraid to use it even towards her mentor, it seemed. More interestingly, the Mother Superior let it go. A single muscle in her cheek twitched, but she did not respond to the taunt and directed her piercing gaze to Eist instead.

“You cannot stay here,“ she told him.

There was no hostility in her voice, but it was definite. He knew why — she only had to put one and one together to realise Yennefer brought trouble right to their doorsteps, and she was not wrong.

“I understand.“

“Good."

“No!“ Yennefer’s face was furrowed with outrage. "That's bullshit."

“Sister Yennefer!“ the older woman chided the girl for her crudeness, but Yennefer did not seem to care.

"We can't send him out like this," she snapped with a gesture towards him. "Look at him!" 

He was torn between taking offense and amusement, but Yennefer continued, “I thought faith was supposed to be a sanctuary for everyone in need, isn't that what you are preaching to us in this place?“

“I am _teaching_ you to stay out of trouble and not meddle in things you have no control over.“

Yennefer stared at her mentor for a moment, eyes wide and full of disbelief. Then she shook her head.

“Then what is the point of us?“

There was a shift on the older woman's face, the strict expression turning into something… mellower.

Eist watched their exchange with interest. There was a history there, that much was obvious.

Mother Tissaia looked at the girl for another heartbeat, then she turned to Eist.

"You may stay for the night. Have some food, and a wash, and tomorrow we'll see what to do with you.“

Supper was taken in silence, any form of conversation strictly forbidden. The nuns served a simple stew with some bread, but Eist still had to restrain himself from wolfing it down. The Sister next to him, a young woman with freckles who introduced herself as Triss, seemed to notice, and she gave him an understanding smile and discreetly put her own slice of bread next to his plate.

Afterwards, while the women were in prayer he used the time to clean up. The water from the well was cold, but Eist enjoyed it and after rinsing the dirt and sweat from his skin, he felt better than he had in days.

He took a moment to simply sit beneath one of the apple trees, where the sunlight was filtering through the crown and the branches swayed gently in the wind.

The days were getting brighter and warmer now, only the nights still held the last wisp of winter frost. He leaned his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. The sun shone through his closed lids, turning his entire vision orange and slowly, he felt the warmth seep into every fiber of his body and spring became summer.

He'd watched Calanthe do it so many times, seemingly soaking in the rays, and for the first time he thought he understood why. She missed Portugal, the warmth and the summers and the long hours of sunlight, she had confessed to him one time. The smell of citrus and heat, and the red and golden colours of the afternoon sky. England must have appeared cold and harsh when she'd first arrived here, but she had never shown any open dislike, had never been anything but strong and graceful when she'd stepped into her role as queen. 

Only the few stolen moments where she would let herself enjoy the sun gave her away.

An uncomfortable feeling expanded in him, one he had been fighting to keep down ever since he had left London. Eist got up from his spot beneath the tree and looked back at the little abbey, quiet and peaceful and unaffected by what was happening around it.

In the matter of a moment, his decision had been made. He'd made it half around the building, heading back towards the forest when he heard someone call after him.

The freckled girl, Triss, had appeared in the doorway of a side entrance.

"Leaving us without saying goodbye?" she asked.

She didn’t have a bad bone in her body, Eist thought as he looked back on her kind face, showing no signs of accusation, only sympathetic humour. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” he felt the need to explain. “I am posing a risk, to all of you.”

Not unlike Yennefer, Triss did not seem too concerned about any of it. She just smiled and raised her eyebrows. They were expressive, rising and falling and curling with every shift of emotion.

“The Lord has never turned his back on people in need, and neither do we. Come,” she said and took him by the elbow, “I want you to properly meet my sisters.”

He followed her into a room, sparsely furnished like the rest of the abbey, but there was a beam of sunlight falling through the small window, a rich orange brushstroke of a late afternoon sun that seemed to warm up the place like a crackling fireplace.

There were three other girls sitting on benches. They had been leaning over their needlework but looked up when Triss and him entered. 

"These are my sisters," Triss said. "Sabrina and Fringilla, and you already know Yennefer of course.” The two nuns he had not met before made quick gestures of acknowledgement when Triss introduced them. 

Triss motioned him towards a chair, then she took a seat next to Yennefer.

There was an awkward moment of silence, before Eist cleared his throat and asked, “Have you all been here long?”

“Fringilla has been here the longest, the rest of us arrived in the last five years,” Triss said. She threw a quick glance at her Sisters before she continued, “Our previous homes did not have room for us anymore. Like you, we had to leave everything behind and start anew. We were somewhat lost, before Mother Tissaia took us in."

"Our dear mother of misfits," Sabrina commented with a chuckle.

And he soon learned that the title was not entirely unearned.

Sabrina had joined the convent when her parents had found out she'd been a little too friendly with the boy next door (there were no hints of shame or resentment on the girl's face when Triss told him the story, which led Eist to believe that she was someone who had the kind of confidence that came from being entirely comfortable with herself).

Fringilla had become a nun after her parents had died and her uncle, who was a pious man, had decided that his niece would be better placed in a cloister (the girl had a soft, round face that would have worn naiveté better than that hardness which was undoubtedly the result of a series of bitter experiences).

Then there was Yennefer of course, who refused to share anything about her past to him (and threatened to plant Triss head down like a carrot in the vegetable patch if she peeped a single word – Triss had simply petted the girls knee but she had respected her wish, which said a lot).

Triss herself told him that she'd had the choice between getting married or taking the cloth – "and that's how I ended up here," she said with a smile. "It's a second chance, for a lot of us. A way to put behind all sins, the way the Lord teaches us. Yesterday is in the past, and tomorrow we can do better."

And then there was the Mother Superior, who was much of a mystery to everyone at that table. When Eist asked about her story, he'd only received blank looks and shrugs. She had an aura to her, with her straight shoulders and thin-lipped mouth. She was a huge personality in a tiny package and he knew for certain that he would regret getting on the wrong side of her.

For a moment he wondered what would happen if Calanthe and Tissaia were ever to meet. Two possibilities, most likely: They would acknowledge each other with reluctant respect but never as friends, or they would take over the world. He chuckled silently to himself at the thought, before the familiar heaviness settled in his chest again.

Only five days ago had he escaped London in the dead of the night, and the guilt and worry had been his constant companion ever since. 

"You must be tired," Triss said with a glance at him, a more sympathetic expression coming over her face. "Come, I'll show you to your room."

It was a small room, sparsely furnitured with nothing but a bed, a desk, and a wooden cross at the wall. Someone had laid out some fresh clothes for him on the bed.

"Thank you." 

Those two words could do nothing to convey just how grateful he really was, but Triss smiled anyway.

Before she left him to herself she turned to him again, and said carefully, "You know, I'm not a priest – I cannot absolve you of your sins, I cannot give absolution, but if you need to talk and someone to listen, I'm here for you.“

She gave him another brief smile before she closed the door.

The narrow bed was hard, but after sleeping on the cold, damp ground for days it felt like heaven. In the darkness, he stared up at the ceiling and the Sisters' words echoed in his head.

_Yesterday is in the past, and tomorrow we can do better._

The guilt was still there, but it was quieter now. Because he got to have a second chance, he was not beyond redemption and Calanthe could still be saved.

Live today to fight tomorrow.

Finally, sleep overtook him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triss is gay pass it on


	5. A Game of Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have an emotional support witch called uberwaldian_connection who is much much kinder about my writing insecurities than she has to be and for that she owns like all my heart 🧡  
> i also haven't thanked themarvelousmadmadammim yet for taking the time to read over the first few chapters and giving me some amazing tips on how to write Medieval AUs (turns out, listening to the soundtrack of The King (2019) on repeat is not enough).  
> Everybody in this fandom knows how fucking good and brilliant they are as writers so I don't gotta tell you how much I appreciate their input ❣

Like many changing moments in history, it begins with a letter. Thirteen words scribbled on a parchment in the dead of night and neatly folded. Unremarkable and treasonous. 

It passes hands quickly and disappears in a breast pocket, before the same hands proceed with the bloodletting to rid the writer's body of an invented illness.

It stays in that breast pocket for two days, sometimes being taken out, turned over, contemplated, almost torn up or thrown into the fire twice, before it finally gets passed on.

The second link in the chain asks no questions about the letter when he receives it along with the right amount of coin. Together with that man it boards a ship and sails across half a sea.

The ship tumbles over the waves when it gets surprised by a storm, but makes it across when the sun rises, and travels up the river Loire, further into the center of the country until it finds port. There, the little letter is forwarded once more when its carrier's feet touch land. 

Finally and at last, it reaches its destination. Hands not withered yet by age or battle, the tips a little stained with ink receive the letter, break the simple seal, unfold the parchment.

Read.

Like many changing moments, it begins with a letter.

* * *

Eist could have been content like this in another life, he thought as he dug over a space behind the small convent where the Mother Superior planned for a new vegetable bed. The spade left calluses on his hands and he felt the first signs of sweat forming on his forehead. He could exhaust himself like this, in this work. Not easy, but simple — until his mind was too muffled to think and he could fall into bed with a feeling of peace and contentment and not a worry in the world.

But this life was all he had, and when he lay awake in that narrow, hard bed the Sisters had given him, his mind began to reel.

It did feel like memories from another life, so different were these two worlds. It had been less so, when he had given up his seafaring to stay at court indefinitely. Court and the sea were not that different — both unpredictable unless you knew how to navigate them, with hidden dangers and depths, and occasionally filled with monsters.

No, he thought as he lifted another shovel full of dirt and threw it to the side, court was worse. At least at sea everything was straightforward about killing you.

Fringilla went to the market in the village near by every Monday, and for Eist she brought the latest news, things she heard when the townspeople shared goods and gossip. There were tales of Stregobor's coronation, about recent pamphlets regarding a new crusade, but nothing, not a single word about the queen.

It was all right, he told himself. No news was better than bad news. If anything had happened, there would have been rumours.

She was fine, he knew it in his core. This gazelle-eyed, lion-hearted force of a woman, who had proven herself more worthy of the title King than any man he'd ever met.

Eist didn’t know how he’d ended up staying in this abbey for almost a month now. He couldn't go further, but going back wasn't an option, either. After the first night, the Mother Superior had told him he could stay, if — and only if — he kept his head low, and made himself useful. And she’d thoroughly held him to his word.

The sweat was dripping from his forehead as he finished the last patch, and joined Triss in the vegetable garden.

The young Sister was plucking vegetables that were ripe, and spreading a brewage of stinging nettle on the plants to get rid of the greenflies. She smiled up at him when she saw him and handed him the basket to continue with the harvest.

They worked quietly. Triss was easy to talk to, and equally easy to be silent with. The sun was wandering over the sky in her usual arch, her rays falling directly on where they were toiling. The days were warmer now, and there was a constant humming of bees and other winged creatures in the air around them.

A shadow fell over him and when he looked up, Yennefer had planted herself in front of him. In her outstretched hand, she held a cup of water. 

"Thank you kindly, my lady," he said, taking the cup from her.

"I'm not a lady," she shot back dryly, but there was a ghost of a smirk on her face. "And what use are your thanks to me, Tuirseach?"

"What else might I offer you, then, to propitiate you?" He fell easily into that playful banter with her. "Jewelry, silk, treasure? What is it you wish for, Yennefer of Vengerberg?”

He watched her cross her arms and pop her chin forward, with that sense of entitlement so inherent to youth, when the world still seemed wide and you thought that one day you would find it at your feet. 

"I want everything," she said.

Eist and Triss exchanged a brief look, and he noticed the concern on the older girl’s face as she looked back from him to her friend, forehead wrinkled in clear incomprehension at her Sister’s bold declaration.

But Eist felt an odd sense of familiarity at her cockiness, her resentment of the status quo, that hunger to swallow the world whole. It filled him with such fondness, and he let his eyes wander over the ground around him, feigning to search. Then he looked up.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid we're out of 'everything'. Can I offer you a fine cucumber instead?" he asked, lifting the green vegetable he'd been in the middle of plucking.

Yennefer stared at the vegetable, before raising her eyes to him, eyebrows arched. He gave the object in his hands another look, and realisation dawned on him.

He dropped the cucumber into the basket with the others while the corners of Yen's mouth pulled into a smirk.

"You have a questionable sense of humour for one in your profession," he told her.

Yennefer just shrugged, shooting him another grin before going back inside, leaving him and Triss alone.

When he turned back, he saw Triss watching them with interest.

"Yen usually doesn't warm up this easily to new people," she explained, "or people to her. I love her dearly but she can be purposefully prickly, and not everyone can bear it."

Eist let out a breathy chuckle, because yes, it was so familiar. He had seen it, that mask, and seen through it eventually, too. It was easier to be proud and aloof, pretending nothing could ever touch you than admitting how much you really cared and feared that people you trust could use it against you.

"She reminds me of someone I know," Eist confessed. There was a spider crawling over his leg, and he brushed it off carefully. It landed on the dirt and began scurrying away, along the furrow of the cucumber plants.

"A woman?" Triss asked.

"Yes," he said softly, watching the spider disappear under a leaf.

"Where is she now?"

"In London still. I had to leave without her."

“I’m sorry,” she offered but he shook his head.

"I’m the one who is sorry. I fled in the middle of the night, leaving behind everything I swore to protect." Even now, the words slid through his throat like dry meat, getting stuck halfway through. He swallowed. "But it’s not too late. I have failed once, I will not fail again.“

"The crown sits on another head now,“ Triss reminded him gently.

"Not to me."

Triss dipped the cloth into the brew again and wrung it out over the plant, the drops trickling from one leaf onto the other.

"Does it really matter, who sits on the throne?"

"Of course it matters," he frowned. "It's the difference between living wastefully and remembering there are people to feed; the difference between starting a war over a snide remark and knowing that war is an evil necessity; the difference between having the spine and sense of responsibility to make difficult decisions every day or finding pleasant distractions instead."

He took a deep breath, before he repeated, "It does matter. You're young, Triss. Too young to remember the years of civil war before Roegner prevailed, and the few years of unrest after, until he found a political alliance and along that way, a wife. You only know the stability and relative prosperity that we have been blessed with these last two decades. But you have never known an England that has gone through the transition of rulership.”

“But I have,” Triss objected, but Eist just shook his head mildly.

“History will say there was King Roegner II, who was succeeded by his son Coram I, but the reality is that we're living in Queen Calanthe's England — every law, every war, every accolade and every execution has been done under the queen's command, during her husband’s reign, as well as the young king’s. She knows ruling is also a duty, not just a privilege.”

"I didn't know," Triss admitted. Then she added, "She must be terrifying. Or very charming, to get her way like that."

"She is terrifying," Eist laughed. "— and charming. Proud, and lordly. And a much better person than she lets on."

“Like Yen.”

He was about to agree before he stopped himself — but it was too late, his face had given him away.

“You love her.” 

Triss’s expression was bright with astonishment and wonder. He had forgotten how intuitively perceptive she was, because she filled every conversation with such ease and comfortableness that made it too easy to let one’s guard down, to slip up.

He had all but confessed, and she had picked up on the pieces and put them together.

"The knight who fell in love with the woman he swore to protect?“ Triss asked, already swept up by the balladic poetry of it.

"No," he murmured. "I was already in love with her when I became a knight. It's _why_ I came back."

If the young nun had seemed intrigued before, it was nothing compared to now, her eyes all but asking her unspoken question.

Eist hesitated. He had never talked to anybody about this, not even his own sister, whom he knew and trusted more than anyone. But there was a kindness and an empathy to the young nun, and suddenly, he felt himself wanting to open up to somebody about it, if only to remind himself that he had not imagined all of it in a fever dream, from another life.

“I was the captain of a ship before I joined the King’s Guard,” he explained. “When the King of Portugal died, King Roegner asked me to accompany the queen to her father's funeral. It was a journey of twelve days and I've grown... fond, quite fond of her in that time.“

“Did you two —“ The girl let the rest of the sentence trail off, but Eist quickly shook his head, brows furrowed.

“No," he clarified. "Of course not. She was the queen, and married. Neither of us would have done anything to harm her reputation so.” 

They had come close, though. On the entire way to the kingdom of Portugal she had been her usual self — brash and boisterous, showing no sign of grief appropriate for the occasion, and he had been inexplicably intrigued by her, the way white-foaming rip tides and rogue waves intrigued him, with their unpredictability, both playful and deadly.

He had not seen her the entire time they were in her parents' castle, but during the first night on their journey back there had been a knock on the his door, and he'd been surprised to see the queen standing outside of his room, still dressed properly despite the later hour. 

She'd marched in without any shyness and sat down at the table where a few men of his crew and he were playing a game of cards. Everybody had stilled when she’d barged in, staring at her with bafflement, but she had simply flicked her wrist.

“Well, do go on,” she'd told them. “Our room is so horridly dull that We fear We shall die of boredom if We have to spend a moment longer in it.”

So everyone had picked up their cards again. It had been awkward at first, but the queen was a quiet companion tonight and soon everyone had almost forgotten about her presence entirely and the game turned more and more boisterous and uninhibited as they played for money. Eist had thrown a glance at her when one of his men said something vulgar, but it appeared as if she hadn’t even heard it, her eyes currently taking in the nautical map on the opposite wall before flickering back to the game with a kind of feline indifference.

After a while, Eist had finally sent his men away — some to bed, the others onto deck for the change of shifts. He had expected the queen to leave too, but had been surprised to find her still sitting in that chair. He’d wondered what to say, but thankfully, she had relieved him from this responsibility quickly.

“Show me which places you’ve travelled to, jarl.” And she’d nodded towards the map.

It had irritated him for a moment. He was not used to being commanded on his own ship, but an odd part of him had suddenly wanted to… impress her, just a little. It wasn’t often one had a queen on board, he’d told himself. It was only natural.

Still, he’d said, “I don’t think there is much to tell.”

But the queen had only smiled lazily. “Humour me, then.” 

Not for the first time that night he had wondered what had brought her here, driven her out of the privacy of her own cabin. But she was quieter than on their journey there, as if a cloud had cast itself over the sun, and he’d felt himself soften. So he had begun to tell her of all the countries he’d been to, the adventures he’s had at sea. Eist was a gifted story-teller, people had told him this many times, and for a while the young queen seemed to allow herself to delve into his tales. 

He had said something, he could not remember what, but it had made her laugh, and he had known — instinctively and instantly — that this had been the first genuine smile he’d seen from her and he couldn’t believe that he had ever mistaken anything previous to that for real. The light and the warmth suddenly flooding her features was so different, so bright and vibrant. Beautiful. 

And just as quickly as it had appeared, it was cut short by a sob that had surprised him more than anything, and he realised that something else had bubbled up from the depths of her, something much more precious — a heart. Beating with more love and care than she would ever admit. 

In all his travels it was the most valuable thing he’d ever found. She kept it well hidden within the shell of her ribcage, not allowing anyone to see anything they weren’t privy to. Not even her own grief. Until that night.

Calanthe had seemed as surprised as he had, and there was something very unexpectedly human to the way she had suddenly looked embarrassed that this sign of weakness (as he now knew she perceived it) slipped out, in front of a stranger no less. But he had wordlessly handed her his ale and she had taken a drink and from one moment to the other, there had been a sense of ease and comfortableness to their company.

The next time she came by, she told him to play the game of cards with her. It was a game played for gambling and Eist had suggested leaving out that part but the queen had taken none of that. 

“If it’s a gamble, We’ll gamble,” she’d declared.

“You don’t know the rules, your majesty,” he'd pointed out, as respectfully as possible but she'd merely raised an eyebrow.

“We are a fast learner, jarl,” she had returned with a wry smirk, which in retrospect had been comically understated. She _was_ a fast learner, and when they’d begun their first round he was baffled to see she needed no explanations at all. It was then that he realised she hadn’t just mindlessly watched them play the other night, an idle distraction as he had assumed. She had observed and studied them, learning tricks and tells all while giving the impression she wasn’t paying any attention at all. Soon, she was not just holding her own against him but beginning to outsmart him, too. He’d been impressed, until he had gotten suspicious.

At some point he’d wondered if it would border on treason to accuse his queen of cheating. But the ale and the flickering light of the candle and the way she had looked just so damned pleased with herself for winning against him repeatedly had brought a soft flush to her face, and had made him more reckless and daring than he would have ever allowed himself to be.

When she’d put down her sixth trump in a row, he’d dropped his own cards and pointed at the Knave on top of the pile, eyes widened accusingly.

“You’ve already played that card!”

“No, We didn’t,” she’d replied with such conviction he’d almost believed her — almost.

Eist leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and narrowed his eyes at her. The queen did the same, meeting his stare unblinkingly. Her mouth hooked into a lopsided grin, baring a couple of teeth — surprisingly sharp, and delightfully chaotic like her.

“Show me your cards,” he told her but Calanthe had clicked her tongue.

“That would be against the rules.” She’d raised her eyebrows at him. “Are you trying to tempt Us into breaking the rules, dear hound?” 

The ease with which she turned the situation around on him, and exceeded it by putting on the most poorly feigned scandalised expression had made him grin.

“I don’t think you can be tempted into doing anything you don’t already want to do, your majesty.” 

Her expression had shifted, and it was like something in him burned under her gaze.

“Are you sailor or soothsayer, jarl?” she’d drawled, and he didn’t know if the flickering in her eyes came from the candle or just her.

"Aye, in this moment merely an innocent man who gets cheated at a game of cards."

Her grin had widened. "Prove it."

Quick as a wink he had reached out for her cards, but she'd pulled back just as fast, either from good reflexes or because she had expected this move. His hand closed around thin air. She'd jumped up from her chair with a wild laugh when he got up to try again, backing away while holding them high up over her head, trying to keep them out of his reach. But the cabin had been small, and he was tall, and soon she’d found herself backed against the wall and his hand had closed itself over hers.

For a moment he’d stilled, suddenly aware of how close they were, how entirely inappropriate this situation was, and how equally unable he was to end it, just yet. 

"You're not playing fair," he’d murmured. He could feel her pulse hammering against his palm where it still held her wrist, wild and unrestrained, and he’d been sure he could feel the heat from her blood beneath her skin.

"Never said I would." 

She’d grinned breathlessly, and there’d been a fire dancing in her eyes that had suddenly filled the entire room, spread over to him and rushed through his veins like a wildfire. He’d been transfixed by it, and then he’d felt this inexplicable pull that he'd never felt before, urging him to lean forward, just a fraction more.

Her eyes had followed the movement of his own when they had flickered down to her lips, had seen them part just slightly, her grin turning into something else.

 _Dangerous_ , his mind had screamed, and his feet had followed, quickly taking a few steps back and bringing space between them. She’d looked at him with a gaze much too perceptive and clear for someone who should not be sober at this point. Whatever this was between them, these were waters he should not be tempted to sail, for both of their sakes.

For the few remaining days of the journey they had been mindful not to spend any time alone in the same room, an unspoken agreement on both sides. From time to time, though, he had caught himself throwing glances in her direction before he could think better of it, and he could have sworn he could feel her eyes on him sometimes, too.

He’d brought her back to London where she’d already been expected by the royal guard as soon as she'd stepped off the boat. Eist had watched her go with an odd, inexplicable heaviness. The entire way down the plank and into the carriage, she had never looked back. But when he had returned to his cabin he’d found a single card on his table, looking up at him with a mischievous smile — the Knave, the last card she'd played.

He’d kept it in a drawer in his cabin since then. It was quite silly, he knew, but to him it had become something of a good luck charm, and he’d often taken it out and moved it deftly between his fingers when making difficult decisions. Calanthe had laughed at him when he’d told her many years later, but there had been a fondness in her teasing that let him know she was a little soft for sentimentalities, too.

Looking back, he thought they’d always been meant to find each other, like waves ultimately finding the shore. When their paths had crossed for the first time they'd been young, wilder, reckless. And yet, even as duty had pulled them into opposite directions again, he had known that since that day a part of him had stayed on dry land, in London, and would forever be there. And that one day, life would bring him back to it.

"So what changed?" Triss asked, their garden work entirely forgotten by now.

"The King died, and a four year old boy ascended to the throne." Eist exhaled. He had not forgotten when he had cast anchor in Ireland and the news reached him: King Roegner had passed unexpectedly of sweating sickness, and the young prince Coram had just become king. 

"The moment his accession was announced, there was a target on his back, and the queen's who had just become Queen Regent. So I left behind my life at sea and returned to court and joined the King's Guard to do whatever I could to keep both of them safe.”

“Was it worth it?” 

He dropped his head with a half-smile at her question, both so easy and impossible to answer. The answer was _yes, and so much more._

"She is half my soul, you know?"

Triss’s lids fluttered, surprised, and there was something blue in the soft smile that followed.

"I don't. Living a life in a convent is not exactly predestined to find your special someone. Although —" she paused, seemingly lost in her own thoughts for a moment, "— I suppose my sisters are special to me, in a way. I don't know if it is even comparable but when I'm with the I feel like I... belong. They're my family, more than my own family has ever been. With them I can be myself, and we stick together through the good and the bad. And if one of us messes up, we don't abandon them. We keep each other safe."

"I think it's perfectly comparable."

They smiled at each other for a moment, before Eist’s expression grew a bit more sober.

"What I told you, I would appreciate it if —" But Triss had already raised her hand to interrupt him.

"My lips are sealed," she promised.

And with that, they returned to working quietly side by side.

* * *

It was late when Eist got out of bed and made his way down into the kitchen, looking for some dried lavender. He needed to _sleep_. 

His talk with Triss had shifted something in him. Every day since he’d arrived had been so calm, so repetitive, that almost a month had passed and it felt both like forever and no time at all. And all this time, not a day has gone by that he did not think of her, missed her. Worried, each time Fringilla or Tissaia returned from the market with news. This was the first time he had spoken about her, and hearing himself tell the story had shifted it back to the front of his mind, every memory, every feeling suddenly was so tangible again, so real that now, as he lay in bed in the dark and quiet, all of a sudden he swore he could discern the sweet scent of her hair, as if she was lying next to him, thought he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, reached out to find nothing but the cold, hard wall next to him.

It was impossible to fall asleep like this, which was why he had gotten out of bed eventually and was now on his way down to the kitchen. When he stepped into the kitchen, he saw a little light flickering through the gap of the door leading to the pantry.

He opened the door and found Yennefer, sitting on the low bench and holding something that looked a lot like mead.

“Don’t tattle to Tissaia,” she smirked when she saw him, and stretched out her hand to offer him some. He shook his head but took a seat on the bench next to her. Yennefer just shrugged and took another sip. 

“What’s going on?” he asked. He’d noticed the strange mood hanging in the air as soon as he had seen her. 

The young nun snorted. Her hood was half off, he realised, her black hairline visible in the dim light. For a moment he wondered if it was already considered a sin, but considering the current situation, Yennefer would hardly care.

“Nothing,” she huffed. “As always in this life. Absolutely nothing.”

“This kind of nothing can be good,” he reminded her. 

“Aye, if you’re old or boring.”

He smiled softly. Eist wouldn’t contradict her, life had always pulled him out into the world when he was younger, he could barely stay put, until —

“I want power over my own life,” the girl’s words pulled him out of his thoughts, “and my decisions, not being told what to do every day and being scolded when I don’t abide. I’m sick of being told to be nice and humble, because I’m _not._ ”

Yennefer was a kinder soul than she thought herself to be, he truly believed that, but she was also carrying a kind of chaos in her that did not do well sitting idle, brimming under the surface and wanting to erupt. 

For a moment he imagined Calanthe in a convent, and had to push that image out of his mind immediately. She would have been terrible at it. Trying to imagine her having to follow other people’s rules, accept hierarchy unquestioningly — even as the most powerful person in England she had a hard time not picking quarrels left and right, including His Holiness, the Pope. Sometimes he suspected she would pick a bone with God himself if given the opportunity, which was why he usually put in a good word for her in his evening prayers, just in case.

Eist turned back to the young Sister, who seemed so angry at the world, too.

"Do you remember that day—" he asked, "— where you found a wanted man in the woods and saved him by scaring off three grown men all by yourself? That sounds damn powerful to me.”

The girl turned her face straight ahead, obviously pleased but trying to hide it. Instead, she said dryly, “Are you swearing in the house of the Lord?”

"I’m as god-fearing as the next person, but I am also a sailor and old habits die hard."

"'Old' is right," she muttered under her breath.

"Respect your elders," he shot back, and she grinned. She had way too much fun sassing him, but he humoured her gladly.

"You have a whole life ahead of you," he said eventually. “Rarely do people achieve greatness this young, and those who do were thrown into it and had to learn to swim or sink. You’re a swimmer, Yennefer, I know this in my bones, and there is nothing you can’t do if —”

Suddenly her mouth was on his, warm and tasting of mead. His mind took a whole beat to process what had just happened; then his hands grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back while stumbling to his feet, bringing a good deal of distance between them.

"What the… I… _fuck_ , what was that?"

Words did not seem to come to him, his thoughts felt like water trickling through his fingers. Yennefer’s face was blank as she watched him fumble, before she shrugged.

"Just wanted to see if you’re better company than just talk," she said. It was impossible to read anything from her face or her voice, both perfectly calm and flat.

He stared at her, his mind still reeling, trying to make sense of what just happened.

"I'm sorry," he then said, without really knowing what it was he was apologising for. _Sorry for not stopping her sooner. Sorry for… leading her on, somehow. Sorry that life had played her this card, that she was so terribly unhappy._

"Stop fretting," the girl told him, watching him under heavy lids. "It’s one of those nights where I get bad ideas that I’d regret in the morning anyway.” She got up and put the half-empty bottle back on the shelf. “I should thank you, for saving me from a rude awakening tomorrow. So on that note, I bid you a good night, Tuirseach."

When she'd left, he sank back onto the bench, running a hand through his hair and let his head fall back against the wall, wondering how much lavander he'd need to knock him positively out.

* * *

It was after morning prayer, and the sweet smell of honeyed buns filled the vaulted kitchen and carried into the hallway. The Ascencion of Christ was coming up in three days, and the baked goods that the Sisters were preparing were meant for mass in the village church where Tissaia would share them with the priest and his community. More accurate would be to say that Triss baked, while Sabrina chattered and snacked. The older girl slapped Sabrina's hand away when the latter reached out to nick a bun from the tray, still warm and buttery, and earning her a pout.

When Fringilla entered and Triss looked to the door, however, Sabrina seized the opportunity and discreetely stole one anyway. Fringilla shot them a small smile and Triss turned back to her baking only to notice then the sweet bread in Sabrina's hand. She shot her sister a reproving look.

"Really?"

But the blonde girl just chewed contendly and gave her a brief wink.

"I heard the strangest thing on the market today," Fringilla announced as she put the basket on the table. "People in the village said we're being invaded."

Triss nearly spilled the flour in her hand and Sabrina stopped chewing.

"What? Are you sure?" Triss asked, flabbergasted.

"They say there have been sightings of troops, somewhere near Rochester. Some say they must have come with ships, because their banner is nothing they have seen before, so people say it must be foreigners."

"Who would want to invade us?" Sabrina asked, half muffled through the piece of bread she was back to chewing on, and quickly dropped it on the counter behind her when the door opened — but it was only Yennefer, not the Mother Superior, and Sabrina picked it back up.

"What's going on?" Yennefer asked.

Triss explained to her what Fringilla had just told them. In the end, Triss furrowed her brows, and said after a moment, "We should tell Eist."

"What? Are you daft?" Yennefer snapped. "What good would that do?"

"He should know," the older girl said quietly.

"Why?" Yennefer asked, bewildered, but Triss pressed her lips together. It was not her story to tell, so she simply repeated, "He deserves to know."

Yennefer had already opened her mouth to protest when a voice beat her to it.

"Know what?" Eist asked.

Eist had spent the morning outside, stacking up on firewood. On his way inside, he'd run into Sabrina carrying two empty buckets. Upon seeing him she had promptly handed them over to him with a "Please" and "thank you" and a charming grin. So he had gone back outside to the well.

When he returned he heard the sound of voices, unusually serious. It took him a moment to realise they were talking about him, Triss and Yennefer so caught up in their argument that none of the Sisters realised he’d stepped into the room, until he spoke up.

“Know what?”

A heavy silence fell over the room as Eist looked from one grave face to the other. Yennefer looked angry whereas Triss seemed troubled, while Sabrina’s and Fringilla's faces gave nothing away, none of them keen on answering him.

It was Sabrina who broke first.

"We're being invaded by an army and no one knows who they are," she blurted out, and raised her hands defensively when Yennefer shot her a glare. "He would have found out eventually," she shrugged.

It took Eist a beat to fully understand what the girl just said; then the information latched like a bolt into its lock. Somebody was rallying troops against Stregobor, either from North or South of London. First question, who?

“What did their coat of arms look like? The banner?” he clarified when he was met with clueless expressions. Then Fringilla stirred.

“I’m not sure,” she began. “I think… um, red and blue. And someone said there were three symbols on it, some sort of flower… like, —”

“Bellflowers,” he finished for her and the girl nodded. “That’s impossible,” Eist murmured, more to himself.

“Why?” Sabrina asked, the rest of her bun lying forgotten on the counter next to her.

“Because Istredd of Anjou has relinquished his claim to the throne of England and lives secluded in a castle in France. In fifteen years he has never broken that agreement. Why would he come now? Unless —”

Istredd’s mother, Matilda, had been pushed aside from the line of succession years ago, during the civil war. But the boy, Istredd, had always been a looming, constant threat by simply existing, until Calanthe had taken care of it, too worried how it could affect her own son’s position and ultimately, life. Istredd had sworn not to seek out his right to the crown, but Coram was gone now. Calanthe, pushed aside. If Istredd wanted to find a loophole, move against England and take what could be rightfully his, now was the time. The question was, would he succeed? Would he spare Calanthe’s life? 

"How far from here did they say the camp was?" he asked Fringilla.

"Not far," she told him, startled by his sudden urgency. "Half a day's ride or so."

He nodded, had already turned on the spot before a hand reached for him and pulled him back around with much force.

"Do you have a deathwish?" Yennefer snapped, keeping her firm grip on this sleeve. "What do you think happens if anybody recognises you?"

"I'll take that risk," he said firmly. 

"And then what? You think you can just waltz into their camp and they're going to invite you to a cup of tea?"

"Worst thing, they kill me. Then they're no different then what awaits me when the English get their hands on me. Don't you see," he said, finally shaking his arm free when her grip loosened, "how this is a godsend? I need the strength of an army to bring Stregobor to a fall, and now there happens to be one here for that same purpose. I _have_ to go."

Yennefer shook her head like she was thinking him mad, but Triss had remained quiet. She was looking worried, too, but when he caught her eyes, she nodded once. Eist shot her a grateful smile.

His heart was beating with wild, reckless hope. Like he had just snapped out of a dream and remembered who he was. The path in front of him was so clear suddenly, and he gathered his few belongings in no time before finding himself at the threshold he’d first passed when he’d been in dire need of a sanctuary.

"Be safe," Triss told him, her arms around Yennefer who was still glaring at him. “And good luck!”

"Thank you," he said, "for everything."

* * *

The small market was at the center of the village, right beneath the shadow of the church. It was past noon, but the place was still buzzing with the sound of chatter and haggling and various livestock, hooves shuffling over the ground and chickens fluttering their wings in their wooden cages.

He began chatting up one person and the next, trying to keep a casualness to his words that betrayed the turmoil he was feeling inside as he gathered information on the mystery troops' whereabouts.

Then he stole a horse. Eist had the full intention of returning it but time was not on his side and he had to hasten. He travelled South-West. The villagers had been able to give him vague directions but for the rest of the route, Eist trusted his years of experience. He had a suspicion on which coast the ships could have anchored, and that was where he was going, hoping to find the camp somewhere along the way.

Whereas he'd travelled slow and with utmost caution after fleeing London, time was the incentive now. The sun was hanging low when he finally found what he was looking for. They had set up their camp on the grassy knoll in the middle of a field, giving them the high ground to look for enemies and in case of an attack — smart. 

Eist dismounted his horse and led it deeper into the cover of the forest, up a hill. There, he bound it to a low branch. The horse shook its head and then lowered it to the grass, beginning to nibble on a patch of clover.

Carefully, he made his way closer to camp, the last few feet flat on his stomach and crawling towards the edge of the little hill. Shielded by the trees, he looked down into the camp.

The village people had spoken the truth. The banner, red border and blue background with three yellow bellflowers in the middle, fluttered in the wind. Until now, a part of him had still believed they must have been mistaken, confusing the symbols on the banner. But it was not so. Istredd of Anjou had really stepped foot on English soil.

Eist's eyes wandered over the little tents — five thousand heads, he estimated. Not that much, but not a small number either. He got up and was about to make his way down the hill when suddenly a hand grabbed his shoulder and he felt the cold steel of a blade against his neck.

"Turn," he heard someone say. Eist raised his hands in appeasement and turned, slowly, to face the French guards that had stumbled upon him.

Eist was taken to the camp, hands bound behind his back. Soldiers stared at him as he was pushed forward — unnecessarily so, he would have come anyway. If he only could make it far enough, talk to the leader, possibly Istredd himself…

Rough hands pushed him down on the ground, his knees falling into the mud. One of the men who had caught him disappeared inside a tent. When he came out, he was followed by a man with ashen hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken once. It was not Istredd, who should be a boy merely in his twenties. This man was older and his appearance left no doubt that he was a general of sorts.

The man looked down on him, hostility written over his face.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Eist Tuirseach," Eist replied, knowing this was the time for all or nothing. "Former Head of the King's Guard to the King of England. I have come to offer you my services."

"What use do we have for a traitor, or a coward?" he asked coldly. The words twisted in his gut. It was a familiar sensation, but Eist pushed the feeling away. Guilt was not an efficient companion.

"It's not treason or cowardice that brought me here," he said quietly. 

The man stared at him hard, and Eist was conscious of blinking not too often, not too fast.

"Not I will be the judge of that," he said and disappeared inside the same tent he had come out of earlier.

Time passed as Eist knelt, waiting. The wetness of the sodden ground was beginning to soak through the fabrics of his pants and his joints ached. Then there were footsteps and he heard a voice that he thought he'd never hear again.

"Sir Eist?"

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to whom it may concern: don't be mad at yennefer she's like 19 and a scorpio it's not her fault (also i love her)


	6. ... vive le roi

Patience was a virtue, Calanthe told herself as her fingers drummed rhythmically on the wooden table, mindless and dull patterns, repeating themselves over and over again. Mindless and dull and repetitive like her days. Patience was a virtue, she repeated as her eyes flickered to the window, to the door, closed and snapped open again. Patience was a virtue and unfortunately, she possessed none.

Give her war, give her the plague, she only prayed that hell would not be this bloody dull! 

She started up from her chair abruptly and began to pace. The sun was starting to rise, the grey sky turning white, doing absolutely nothing to lighten her mood.

The birds in the garden though could not be stifled by the thick mass of clouds, singing loudly and unbearably cheerful outside of her window. She wondered how she could have ever slept through such noise.

Calanthe threw a sullen look out the window. The castle grounds were dead empty, as always this early in the morning. She had never noticed before how still everything was, never one to rise early. But everything had changed, and she had learned that while a spinning mind could keep one awake, so did hollowness. Because into that empty space, unwanted feelings could creep in. And whereas she was brilliant at fighting the fight, she was not usually there for the aftermath. 

Her brows furrowed when there was movement down in the gardens. Two figures emerged from the passage through the hedgerows, seemingly deep in conversation. As they came closer and the figures became sharper, she recognised Stregobor and his Lord High Steward, their guards in tow. They walked slowly, then Stregobor paused, shaking his head. 

They seemed to be in disagreement over something. _Good,_ she thought, idle satisfaction stirring in her.

She watched them talk for a while longer when a third person appeared in her field of vision, running swiftly over the grass and towards the two men, bowing deep before he addressed them. Calanthe wished she could hear what was being said, but no sound carried this far up to the window of her room. Nevertheless, she noticed the wild, nervous gesturing of the young man, saw the Steward look to his king for a reaction — watched Stregobor still.

For a moment, he went rigid like a stick. Flicked his wrist to dismiss the man, not even sparing him another glance. Calanthe took another step closer to the window, an inkling creeping up in her. Maybe he had seen the movement, maybe he’d had the same intuition, but when he turned his head, he let his pale eyes wander up the castle wall to her window and looked straight at her.

His face was a mask carved from stone, cold… hard; yet she knew that the devil himself could not have looked at her with more contempt. And she returned his gaze, unabashed and chin high, until Stregobor and the Lord High Steward walked on and disappeared from sight.

Calanthe stepped back from the window, taking in deep breaths and exhaling through her nose. She hadn't heard a single word spoken but she was entirely certain that Stregobor just had word from France, which meant that her letter had made it. Relief mixed with laughter as it bubbled up inside her and she pressed her knuckles against her lips to stifle it. Nobody should hear, not the guards outside her door, and not her lady-in-waiting sleeping in that little chamber next to hers. None of the little flies on the wall spying on her. She knew it was too early, one battle didn't win the war. But it was still damn satisfying.

A day came and passed, then another, and Calanthe waited. That was all she did these days, apparently, wait. She tried to pry out information from the forced-upon handmaiden, unsuccessfully. The girl might act bitter like a lemon, but was far less easy to squeeze out, and in the end all Calanthe got confirmed was that French troops had indeed been sighted near the coast. Apart from that, she learned nothing.

And yet, it was a flicker of hope. She’d rather meet the edge of a sword by Istredd’s hand than the fate Streobor had envisioned for her. She wanted to see him fall. To erase his name from history, a footnote, a mere inkstain at the end of a page. Overthrown by a French duke only one month into his reign. That thought alone gave her some satisfaction. 

All she could pray for now was that Istredd would prove himself not woefully inept. She would do it herself, if only she could, if the political game allowed her such scope. Alas, she had to set the hare running and hope it wouldn’t get its neck into a snare. He had found the English coast, at least. That was a start. 

Somewhere in the distance, the bells of a church began to ring, and a flock of birds fluttered up from the rooftops. It was the Thursday of Ascension, and the noble lords and ladies would assemble in the palace chapel to concelebrate mass. Everybody of distinction would be there.

Calanthe sat at the edge of the bed, and her fingers sank between the bed frame and the mattress, almost absentmindedly so while her eyes remained fixed on the window. The world was beyond her control now, she had played a wild card and whatever happened now was uncertain and unpredictable. But still, she needed to know.

"Lady Mary," she said, the pad of her finger finding something cold and smooth. "Prepare my garments for the sermon."

The rays of a pale morning sun fell through the stained glass windows of the church, bathing the grey walls in colourful fragments of light. Grains of dust were swirling in the spacey room, only visible where beams of light suffused the air and the wooden benches shimmered red from the flickering candles set up all along the middle aisle, and along the walls.

The sound of fabrics rustling went through the room as heads turned when she entered and a murmuring arose, thick like the humming of bees. Calanthe straightened her shoulders, and kept her chin high. This was her first appearance in public since her confinement began, and she could only imagine the rumours this must have fed. Or not — who knew what the King had told the people, how he had explained her disappearance. Stregobor turned too, seated in the king’s chair to the left of the chapel, barely tilting his head. She saw his eyes flicker over her form briefly, narrowing. She knew what he was thinking, what everybody else in this room had noticed.

Stregobor was dressed in the usual royal garments for this holiday, blue, white and golden. Those were the colours she had worn for the last two decades, year and year again. This year, she was clad in white.

"Theatrical," he muttered from the corner of his mouth when she slid onto the chair behind him. "This kind of purity does not suit you."

"The public will perceive it as humble." She brushed out the fabrics of her linen, not taking his bait.

"Sheep are gullible and easily fooled. Your husband was much the same. Impressionable, distracted, incapable of making hard decisions. 'Twas I, the older cousin, whom he looked to for guidance and I did my best to —"

"— whisper in his ear like a biblical snake," she finished for him dryly. “Spewing poison.”

She saw the corner of his mouth lift into a humourless smile. 

"Not the serpent tempted Adam into sin, but _Eve_. The moment you stepped into his life, he was lost to all reason and direction, too bewitched by a sweet tongue and womanly wiles.”

Calanthe couldn’t help the smirk crossing her face, smug and self-satisfied at knowing she had triumphed over Stregobor even then.

“A mistake, to have underestimated you so, I admit. A mistake I won’t make twice. You will be sent North tomorrow, and by the end of the year we will deal with you the same way Duke Istredd should have been dealt with — permanently.”

“Are you scared?” she asked him. “You should be. A rebellion can topple any reign so very, very easily.”

“Or the opposite. I should thank you, really. What better way to begin one’s reign than with a victory over France. Is that not what you told that boy of yours?”

She sucked in a breath. The sound got drowned out by the deep whistling of the organ, filling the room, pushing into every corner of the arches and ceiling. A sly smile played around Stregobor’s lips, barely there, but _there._

“You hoped for this, did you not?” she pressed out. “For my son to die in France so you could take his place. Was it not enough anymore, to lurk in the shadows and pull the strings like a spider?" He had been ready, she remembered. The moment the messenger had arrived, Stregobor had been ready. No false tears, and no time wasted.

Stregobor’s pale eyes were fixed on the altar, but his attention was entirely on their conversation, she was sure.

"I told you, I don't make the same mistakes twice,” he murmured evenly. “Eve will always listen to evil, and Adam will always be tempted into sin. But power, _real_ power, is absolute. It cannot be relativised, and it does not belong to a little woman playing at being king, nor to a weak man letting her."

The music of the organ began to swell, and a high whistling sound hung in the air, oddly prominent against the rest of the music as her mind rolled Stregobor’s words around until something clicked and the whistling fell quiet, as if someone had muted the giant instrument.

"Did you have my son killed, Lord Stregobor?" 

From the side, she saw his eyes flicker without looking at her, his head tilt before turning fully to the front again, his body shifting in his seat for the briefest moment and something inside of her twisted.

The drumming of her blood was booming in her ears, loud, loud, and far away, her body not feeling like her own. The music ended abruptly, and she noticed everybody around her rise as the bishop stepped in front of the altar again, raising his hands. Stregobor stepped forward, too, to receive the first Communion.

Now it was just Calanthe left in the seat row. Her heart hammering and her feet frozen to the spot, and something wild was beginning to course through her body, something with fire and teeth and seething eyes that were glued to the back of the traitor’s head, kneeling on the floor like a lamb for slaughter, so close, so easy to rip apart. 

Cool steel pressed against her skin where she had strapped the knife to her calf that, many weeks ago, the servant girl had dropped when she’d come to fetch her breakfast. It had slid under her bed, and Calanthe’s searching hand had found it days later when she’d lain down on her stomach in the middle of another sleepless night, the memory of it jolting through her unexpectedly.

It wasn’t long or very sharp, but it had a pointy end and Stregobor’s lean muscles were nothing compared to the rage fuelling every fiber of her body. Slowly, Calanthe leaned down, fingers pushing underneath the cloth and pulling the knife from the ribbon. Her knuckles tightened around it as she pressed it against her side, holding it tight as she felt herself take a step forward, her body moving on its own accord, eyes unwaveringly fixed on Stregobor.

She had meant to wait, to pull the right strings and let Istredd take his claim, just as Roegner had taken it, just as Stregobor had. 

_To hell with it._

To hell with patience, to hell with waiting for some divine destiny to take its course. She'd quietly cheated her way through the game because the game was rigged, the rules never designed for her, to benefit the likes of her. She had known it for a long time and succeeded, against all odds, round after round because she was better than them, exceptional.

And _yet_ , in the end it meant nothing. Stregobor and Roegner and Istredd, usurpers in one moment and king in the next, just like that. Mediocre men playing mediocre cards and still winning the end game. Her body trembled. She didn't want to play smart anymore, she wanted to burn the entire thing down. If it burned her, too, so be it.

Stregobor's head was bowed down like everybody else’s in the church, muttering the Latin words of prayer and no one paid any mind to her as she moved closer, determination driving her forward. And forward she had to go. To hell with waiting passively and putting her hopes in other people. She would _not_ rot in a clammy Northern fortress, becoming a ghost before she even died. Her end would be quick, and soon, by the end of an axe and entirely her own doing.

Calanthe of Sintra, The Lioness, regicide —

Suddenly, a hand tightened around her wrist, a forceful grip around the hand holding the knife as it pulled her back and she spun around, from surprise and the readiness to fight, adrenaline thrumming hotly through her veins as she tried to jolt her hand free and the grip tightened in return to the point of pain.

“Don’t,” a low voice murmured, and she recognised it before she saw the face, and she felt her mouth fall open, breathing out his name before she got pulled back into the shadows of the arch and the heavy velvet drape. 

Eist's hand stayed around her own, gentler now that she had stopped struggling, and if she hadn't felt it warm and solid against her she would have believed she'd finally lost it.

Because it was him, and it shouldn't be. He shouldn't be here, wasn't meant to come back, and her mind struggled to make sense of it, to bring those two hard facts together.

His thumb brushed against her wrist, a silent reassurance to the confusion he must see on her face as he kept her close to him and hidden from view. 

"You shouldn't be here," she told him, repeating the only coherent thought forming in her mind, but he shook his head.

"It's all right," he murmured, in no way an explanation but so certain that despite herself she felt some of her fear melt. "Everything is all right, look— " 

And she could feel his hand go to her waist, turning her gently towards the entrance at the end of the nave.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the world stopped.

* * *

_3 DAYS EARLIER_ _  
_

Eist’s head snapped up at the sound of his name and the familiar voice, and he hardly believed his own eyes when he saw that it was Coram standing in front of him, alive and looking well.

“Untie him,” the young king ordered.

“My liege, are you sure —” 

“I’m sure,” Coram said, his eyes never leaving Eist. “He’s like family.”

The old warrior looked from Coram to another man who had come from the tent. He was in his late twenties, had dark, curly hair, brown skin and surprising blue eyes. Eist had never met Istredd of Anjou but he knew instinctively it was him.

Someone stepped around Eist and he felt the ropes around his wrists come off. He pushed himself up, rubbing his sore wrists.The general seemed still weary but King Coram showed no sign of doubt as he smiled at him.

“It’s good to see you, old friend,” Coram said and Eist couldn’t help it, he stepped forward and pulled the skinny lad into a firm hug, before he took him by both shoulders and pushed him a little back to get a good look at him. The boy grinned back at him, baring all teeth. Sweet Pavetta took after her father in looks and demeanour, but Coram was his mother's son through and through — from the thick, brown hair to the expressive eyes and that mischievous smile that promised fun and danger, or both, if you were brave enough.

"And you, my king," he said, squeezing the boy's shoulder fondly. "Good, and almost beyond belief. We thought you were dead." Eist swallowed. “How —”

He didn’t know how to finish the question, but the young king spared him the trouble.

"It's a long story." 

"And not one to be told in passing," Istredd said. "Let's discuss everything inside." He gave a nod towards the tent.

Inside, Coram began to recall everything that had happened since that day he’d almost died. They had been on their way to a nearby church, the king and a few of his men, where they wanted to ask for blessing for their planned journey back when they had stumbled into an ambush while crossing a bridge, during which the king had been hit by an arrow and been thrown off his horse. Instead of falling to the ground, he’d landed in the river which had carried him several miles downstream, until he’d been washed up at the bank of the river, drenched and half-unconscious. He lost time then, but the next thing he did remember was waking up beside a fire and a covered wagon that belonged to a travelling druid called Mousesack. This man had patched up his wounds and put him in dry clothes. “Saved my life, really,” Coram said.

Originally, the young king had wanted to return to his camp, which lay many miles further North but Mousesack had been on his way to a nearby castle, to deliver a secret letter of utmost importance, so Coram had agreed to come and then travel back North afterwards. And then, fate had taken its course, because the castle belonged to Istredd of Anjou.

“What letter?” Eist asked, sitting up.

“This one,” the Istredd said and pulled out a piece of paper from his vest’s breast pocket. Eist reached out and the man handed it to him. It was a simple wax seal, and when he unfolded the paper, there was nothing but a single sentence. 

_You are hereby released from your oath and free to take your claim._

A signature was missing, but Eist recognised the handwriting instantly. Everything fell into place then. _Smart, cunning woman,_ he thought with a sudden rush of fond pride. So that was why Istredd was marching on London now, of all times. Dangerous woman, she’d watch the world burn before leaving anything to chance.

“Queen Calanthe sent this,” Eist said, looking up from the paper.

Istredd nodded. “It was my first thought when I received the letter under the most secretive circumstances, but I had… doubts.” He shared a look with his general. “It wouldn’t be the first time one of my followers tried to persuade me into taking up arms and going against England. But not many know about the agreement I’ve made with the English queen.”

“I didn’t,” Coram said, and Eist noted that the boy looked somewhat guilty. But Istredd threw a piercing glance at Eist. 

“It appears that you have, Sir Eist. You don’t seem surprised at all.”

“I knew,” he confirmed. “You were a young boy of around fifteen at that time when the queen offered you to relinquish your claim to the throne in exchange for the release of your mother from exile.”

“My mother was already ill at that time,” Istredd said, quietly “All I wanted for her was to die in her homeland.”

“Istredd told me that Lady Margaret was locked away for eight years and he was not allowed to see her," Coram said, looking to Eist for… not confirmation, his big wide eyes were too troubled for that. An explanation, rather, perhaps even a contradiction to such cruelty his parents had apparently inflicted. Eist really wished he could give him that.

“You have to understand, your majesty, that your mother did what she had to do to protect you," Eist said gently. "Just as Duke Istredd’s mother did what she believed was best for her son. Until the end, she never gave up on the dream to see her son on the throne that was denied to her. Almost started a couple of rebellions herself.”

Coram was quiet for a moment, then he looked up to Eist with a wry look. “That could have been my mother.” 

Yes, Eist thought as he returned the half-smile. It could have been Calanthe, which was exactly why she took the measures she did, separating boy from mother, putting Margaret under strict house arrest, far away from her homeland and supporters. It had been Roegner ruling at that time, but the precautions could all be led back to Calanthe, and not once had she underestimated the consequences an uprising in France could have in terms of succession.

In the end, when Margaret had become older and sick, Calanthe had finally granted her her return home, but not without using even this as leverage to stifle any rebellion in its core, exchanging the adolescents passivity for his mother’s peace. 

_'A soft heart does not belong in politics'_ were Calanthe’s words after she had set up the contract, and Eist could only imagine how many times she had repeated those words to herself growing up, when she felt that loving heart inside her chest beating.

“I did not know whether to trust this letter or not, and if I even wanted to exercise my right to the succession, despite the urgings of my followers. Until this young man showed up on my doorsteps —” He jerked his head towards Coram, “— who confirmed to me that the handwriting in this letter was indeed the queen’s. He also told me about the ambush, and by then the news of Lord Stegobor’s seizure of power had reached us, too, and all the pieces of the puzzle started to come together.”

“So you’re marching on London to, what —” Eist asked, looking back and forth between the two men, “win the throne back from Stregobor for which one of you?”

The two young men shared a look, before Coram turned back to Eist.

"We haven't decided yet," he said, almost at the same time that Istredd replied, “I don’t want the throne.” Not the throne perhaps, Eist thought, but something else. He could have pressed on, but time was running against them.

"The word of your arrival will travel, and we can expect it to travel fast,” Eist said. “Soon, London will know."

"Then we should break camp immediately and march on." The general appeared ready to go, halfway up from his chair already, but Coramseemed to hesitate.

"Your majesty?" Eist prompted.

The boy chewed on his lip, before he met their questioning eyes. "It does not feel right to lay siege to my own city," he confessed. "A lot of people would lose their lives. On both sides."

"'Tis the way of things, my liege," the old man said gruffly.

"There is no other way," Eist agreed, more kindly, but the boy shifted and Eist saw a little muscle pull at the corner of his mouth, the same way that Calanthe’s did, whenever she was about to disagree.

Coram leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees and he was looking specifically at Eist now.

"If I could get inside the castle… show my people that I am still alive, then surely Stregobor will step down."

"And if he doesn't?" Eist asked quietly.

" _Then_ I will tell him that I have an army."

Eist found himself torn. One choice was safe, conventional, predictable. They would march on London, Stregobor would rally his troops, and it would end in a trial of strength and numbers, with high losses and an unknown outcome. The second choice was risky, very, very risky. There were so many points where they could fail, and if they did, this war could be over before it even started. And then there was the question of keeping the king safe. Going inside the city was like crawling into a snake pit and hoping not to get bitten. It was ludicrous — which was why it could work. And they had one deciding advantage in their favour, which was that nobody in England knew King Coram was not dead.

Calanthe would smack him for even considering this. She'd want him to keep her son safe. But what would happen to her if they besieged the castle and she was still inside, in the clutches of the usurper. She had planned for Istredd to challenge Stregobor, that much was clear. But this only was because she didn’t know that her son was still alive. If anything happened to her, and she’d never know… Eist would never let that happen.

He blew out a breath through his nose, scratching his neck. He was by no means a stranger to making hard decisions under high stakes, and at sea he’d begun to follow a simple rule: Asking yourself not which choice was right; but whether you could pull it off.

Eist looked at Coram, his brown eyes beseeching, yet determined, and nodded. “All right,” he said. “You’ll go, and I’m coming with you.”

They had a plan — mostly. Coram and Eist took a horse and made haste for London, while Istredd and his people would stay behind for a day more, and then start moving. This way, they hoped, could Eist and Coram slip in unnoticed while the king’s watchful eye was fixated on the French troops, so that when they began to move the time lag would have given the two enough time to arrive in London before the news could reach Stregobor and put him on alert. Once in London, Eist would find Calanthe before Coram stepped in front of the lords, and hopefully, Stregobor would see no other option but to quietly surrender.

“It’s a good plan,” Eist reassured the boy next to him, who was evidently fidgeting. He was brimming with nervous energy that seemed close to bubbling out of him, and Eist had the strong suspicion that Coram was struggling to suppress the urge to pace. Despite his own tenseness, a small smile tugged on his mouth.

Coram shot him a quick glance, half-grateful, half-doubtful. “With a lot of unforeseeable consequences.”

“As anything in life,” Eist reminded him, and the boy took a deep breath, and nodded. 

Plenty of people were flooding the chapel, and it was almost too easy to squeeze themselves between them and let the flow push them in. While the crowd parted left and right to take their seats on the wooden benches, Eist reached for Coram and pulled him to the side, lingering close to the door in the half-shadows next to a column and a staircase, leading up to the organ. Nobody paid them any mind, so they waited. 

Eist’s eyes wandered through the chapel until they found what he was looking for. To the left, Eist could see Stregobor, his jewelry shimmering in the wan light of the chapel. In the row behind him was… Calanthe. Eist's heart leaped at the sight of her. The white fabrics of her dress were practically glowing, and her dark eyes stood in stark contrast to the veil framing her face. She was talking to Stregobor, and Eist immediately tensed. He doubted that those four weeks had done anything to improve their relationship. Calanthe had barely been civil when she'd still been the most powerful person in this country, and Stregobor was as vile as they'd come.

Still, they were in a chapel. Nothing bad had ever happened in a chapel. It was why Coram and he had decided on this setting; that, and also the convenience of finding everyone important in one spot at the same time. This was the safest place to be because who would be unholy enough to spill blood in a church?

Calanthe stirred. Eist could see the line of her shoulders straighten in response to something Stregobor had said. 

_Yes, definitely still the same._

The crowd arose for prayer, and Stregobor stepped in front of the altar. It seemed like the perfect moment, and Eist was wondering how he'd get to Calanthe unnoticed, his eyes finding the door behind her that led to the sacristy, when in that very instant a movement caught his gaze.

Calanthe had leaned down, slightly and oddly lopsided, as if reaching for something close to the ground, and Eist knew. Experience or instinct, he knew exactly what her hand was searching for and panic washed over him, shooting through his body like ice water. 

“Stay here,” he pressed out, pushing Coram closer to the wall and began to move. Eist ran like he had never run before, out through the door and around the chapel, pushing through the crowd lingering out on the square in front of the church, making his way around the building. There was a side entrance, leading through a hallway and a small staircase into the sacristy, and then another short passageway into the chapel. Eist knew it by heart. 

As expected, he ran into the first guard securing the entryway. 

“Stop,” the man yelled but Eist knocked him out of the way and simply hurried past, sprinting through the backroom. There, he encountered another guard. 

Danek’s eyes widened when they recognised him and his hand closed around the hilt of his sword, but Eist raised his own empty hands and spouted, “I have no time to explain, but you need to let me get through if you have any love for this kingdom.”

For a moment, the younger man hesitated. But he had served under Eist since he was a mere boy, and years of respect and loyalty didn’t simply vanish. Eist took his chances, and before Danek had fully come to a decision, he pushed past, through the small passage… only to come to an abrupt halt. 

Calanthe was no longer at her seat. In the split of a second, he could see the steel flash in her hand, half-hidden within the long sleeves of her dress and pressed against the moving fabrics of the skirt, but even if he hadn’t seen it, he’d have known it was there, she moved forward with such intent. Another moment later and she would have stepped into the space around the altar, open and visible, and there would have been no pulling back, no point of return. In the nick of time, his hand closed around her wrist, stopping her mid step and his mind yelled _back, back, back._

Calanthe struggled for a moment, and Eist had to tighten his hold, a flash of worry shooting through him at the thought of hurting her, but he was equally afraid to let go. She turned to him with an expression of wild fury, her eyes flashing with a fire that was not something from this earth before they widened as realisation hit her.

He thought he could see his name fall from her lips before he pulled her back into the safety of the arch. Calanthe's face was lined with confusion, quickly turning into worry. 

"You shouldn't be here," she breathed out. Of course she was worried, didn't understand why he'd come back, so foolishly risking his life.

"It's all right," he reassured her. "Everything is all right." 

He reached out. One hand slid around her ribcage, the other gently took her by the elbow as he turned her towards the door. “Look,” he murmured.

The air shifted, almost subtly so. The door didn’t open with a bang, there was no sudden light flooding the chapel. Coram just walked in, right through the middle of the aisle, and a murmur arose in the church, growing louder and louder, and Eist felt Calanthe’s knees buckle for a moment, the only thing keeping her steady were his hands when recognition hit her. 

Stregobor had jumped to his feet, face twisted in consternation as he stared at Coram who had come to a halt halfway, looking back at Stregobor with a calm expression on his face. 

The murmurs ebbed off and the silence that spread was thick and heavy. Everybody looked back and forth between the current king, and the young king believed to be dead.

“My lords, good people of England, that you are assembled here on this holy day to celebrate in peaceful togetherness the ascension of Christ —” Eist listened to Coram speak and felt a surge of pride at the strength in his voice, the poise with which he carried himself. Gone was the nervous boy from before. He spoke like a man, Eist thought; like a king.

“— by God’s good grace and endless mercy have We been saved, to return to you, Our people, and to Our home.”

“A home you would attack with a French army!” Stregobor had found his voice again, but there was an erratic tone to it, and the waving of his hand appeared less authoritative and more unstrung.

“We have come with no army,” Coram called back and opened his arms. “Lo, it is just me.”

Eist watched Stregobor’s pale eyes flicker, and he could practically see his mind reel, weighing all his options. _Which options?_ Surely Stregobor wouldn’t be so reckless to call on the guards to arrest the legitimate king, witnessed by everyone and God… then again, he’d just stopped Calanthe from committing regicide in front of a crowd — anything was possible. 

Coram must have realised something similar, too, because he resumed his leisurely pace, walking straight towards Stregobor. Eist felt Calanthe shift, and he kept his hand on her arm, not quite holding it but anchoring her to him, a silent reminder saying _It’s okay, I am here, trust me —_ and she paused, watching with rapt attention as her boy step forward to meet Stregobor face to face.

“You have done a great service to this kingdom and to Our people, my Lord Stregobor. Truly, few could have looked after Our people better during Our absence. And now it is time for a peaceful and honorable transition of duties, as God wills it."

The wicked glimmer in Stregobor's eyes had not yet disappeared, but even he must have realised by now that the odds had started to sway. Which of the people would support him now, when the choice was no longer between him and a foreign queen, but their own king, flesh and blood of royalty. Not enough, that was the answer, and when Stregobor’s shoulders went slack, Eist knew that he knew it, too.

Calanthe stirred. Her elbow slipped from his loose grasp as she took a tentative step forward. She had been very quiet the entire time, and Eist could only imagine how much this was to process. For a moment, he almost hesitated to let go, but then he gave her arm one last reassuring squeeze before letting his hand fall away.

Coram looked to his mother when she stepped forward, and for a moment he looked like a young boy again, seeking validation and reassurance. When Calanthe had reached the small group however, the first thing she did was turn to one of the guards that stood on the side. Business first, always.

“Please escort Lord Stregobor to his chambers,” she addressed the man, and despite everything, her voice was as strong and authoritative as ever when she spoke as queen. The unspoken command resonated in her words, and the guard nodded. 

Just before Stregobor was taken away Calanthe caught his eyes, and there was no benevolence on her face, it was hard and cold and unyielding. “I would tell you to beg,” she said quietly, and the calm tone of her voice was more terrifying than anything, “but it wouldn’t change a thing.”

She watched him get taken away. Then, finally she looked to her son. For a moment, Eist was sure she was going to pull him into a hug, the hardness on her face melting away within a heartbeat when she took in the sight of him. But then she dropped to her knees, and proclaimed, “Long live the King of England. Long live King Coram,” and suddenly, the whole church followed suit and the words were echoed back tenfold. 

The rest of the day passed in a blurr. Istredd and his entourage arrived at nightfall and were welcomed into the castle to join the festivities of the holiday. He took a seat at the high table for the banquet, to Coram's right while Calanthe was seated to his left. Music and laughter filled the room, and the air was getting warmer as did everybody's blood from the wine and dancing. 

Everybody was in good spirits and the atmosphere was so jolly and carefree that the events of this morning and the last few weeks seemed like they had never happened. Maybe to most people here, they hadn’t. Maybe Triss had been right, he mused, one king or another, to them it made no difference. As long as they kept their privileges or lived independently enough to not be affected by change, the crown was just a symbol.

He wondered how he would have felt, had he stayed out at sea, and had he not intertwined his own fate so tightly with that of the crown. His eyes wandered back to the high table. Calanthe had changed out of her white dress and was now wearing one in the richest blue, a golden circlet resting on her dark head. It shimmered in the candlelight like a halo. She really was a divine thing, beautiful and terrifying.

And tired, he realised with a tinge of concern. It was subtle, but even from afar he thought he could see a light shadow under her eyes, and she didn't engage in the talks at the table with the same boisterous energy as she usually did. He hoped she would find some sleep now that everything was right in the world again.

At some point during the night he got up, the room becoming too stuffy and loud for him. Cool air hit him as he stepped out into a corridor, and he took deep breaths to clear his mind from this fog that had begun to settle in his head. He didn’t walk far, just walked for walking’s sake to find some peace and quiet. It wasn’t terribly late, but the thought of his bed became more and more tempting. The days afoot and on horseback and the chaos were taking their toll on him, he noted.

He turned into another corridor, only dimly lit by a few torches at the end of it. In the distance, the noises from the feast could be heard, but the corridor was empty — or so he’d thought.

“Already tired of the shindig?” 

Eist looked up with a smile at the familiar voice. Calanthe was leaning against the wall, hands folded behind her, and watching him with a look in her eyes that sent more warmth through his body than the stuffy hall earlier ever could. It was the first moment alone with her since his return, the entire day so hectic that they’d only shared brief glances in passing.

“I can’t seem to get into the mood,” he replied, walking towards her.

She hummed. Up close, the shadows under her eyes were even more evident and he could only imagine how many sleepless nights she’d endured. His fingers twitched with the need to reach out, to hold her. Calanthe must have seen the concern on his face, because she shifted slightly, throwing a quick glance along the dark and empty corridor before bringing her gaze back to him.

“It’s been a long day,” she agreed softly.

“It’s been a long month,” he pointed out, a quip that was not yet easy to laugh about. They would get there, though; sunnier days were coming. 

He nodded towards the great hall. “The king’s return on Ascension day is something of a miracle. People will talk about it in centuries to come.”

“He’s his mother’s son after all,” she hummed, voice beautifully warm and rich. “We have a flair for the dramatic.” 

"That you do," he smiled, before his brows pulled together into a frown when he remembered. "Calanthe… please tell me you weren't going to stab the King of England... in a church."

"He would have deserved it," she replied without missing a beat, and she pushed her chin forward in the stubborn, defiant way that he knew meant _I would do it again in a heartbeat, what are you going to do about it?_

What he always did, was the answer — flick his eyes heavenwards with an exasperation that was much too fond to pass as serious. Still, for the small part in him that tried to be the sensible one in this relationship, he had to argue.

“Didn’t you promise me not to purposefully lock horns with him?”

"And _you_ agreed to go to Portugal, so you’re not one to talk.” 

She was not angry, not really, but there was a tinge of a reproach resonating in her voice, in the way she raised a challenging eyebrow at him, and he ducked his head with a rueful chuckle. _Well, he had tried._

“Touché,” he conceded, tilting his chin up to give her a wry look. “We do make quite the pair, don’t we?”

He saw her mouth twitch, only half-heartedly fighting back her own smile.

“More stubborn than a mule,” she agreed. There was a moment of quiet where they simply stood facing one another. Too many times he had imagined their reunion, and in each of them he had pulled her close the moment he saw her, wrapping his arms around her with wild relief. But now, in this dim and empty corridor, where it was just the two of them and he had all the time in the world to simply look at her, he felt a sense of ease wash over him that he realised he hadn’t felt in a month. Not since their world had crumbled, that day in the audience chamber. Not even during those sunny, quiet days in the convent had he known peace — not like this, not the kind that fell gently over one's mind and eased every muscle.

And he realised that this was relief. Not wild, tumultuous, overwhelming. Just a weight simply falling away from one’s chest, rinsed off, and each breath suddenly felt so light. His lips widened into a smile and he watched her eyes practically glow, first with fondness, then with something even warmer.

They were standing close, he suddenly noticed. He couldn’t remember moving so close, or her pushing herself further away from the wall, but somehow it must have just… happened, because he’d only have to shift, to lean forward and kiss her, cup her face in his hands and hold her like the precious thing she was. He saw her lips part, thought he could feel her breath go more shallow and her chin raise ever so slightly, feeling the same pull as she was about to meet him halfway —

The sound of laughter made them startle and pull away, even though they realised immediately that it was coming from afar and was muffled by doors and walls. Still, the motion was too instinctual, too internalised, a creature of time and habit.

Calanthe gave him a small, rueful smile that seemed… tired, in a way. Maybe the same tiredness he’d felt for the last few months, a kind of exhaustion at playing a game that had lost all its allure.

“I should head back,” Calanthe said quietly, and he nodded. She took a step, though not away from him but closer, so that their shoulders brushed and he could feel her fingers graze tentatively against his, intertwining with his with the faintest touch, knuckles to knuckles. “Are you about to retire, my lord?” she asked softly.

He looked down to her, meeting her dark eyes

“Yes.” 

“I will join you soon, then. After I bid my son a good night.”

Eist nodded, and Calanthe gave him another small smile before she disappeared down the corridor. His fingers already missed the touch.

* * *

Calanthe left the festivities shortly after but it still took her almost another hour until she found herself outside of Eist’s door. She hadn’t been here in a long time. For practicality reasons, he had come to her as a rule, not the other way around. It had been less suspicious that way. Still risky, of course, but less suspicious.

Tonight, Calanthe had chosen this way for a reason that had nothing to do with being canny. The truth was simply that she was so very very tired of her own room that the thought of spending another night in it felt almost suffocating. Too many hours had she been locked away in it, staring at the walls and the ceiling when sleep refused to take her.

She knocked, the sound echoing dully in the empty hallway. One beat, two beats, then the door opened. She stepped inside quickly, and found herself in a warm embrace. Her own arms came around Eist’s shoulders and she felt her heels lift from the ground, so tightly were his arms wrapped around her. His beard scratched against her neck, followed by kisses that travelled up to her jaw, her cheek, before finally finding her lips and she opened them readily, a sigh pushing itself from her lungs and straight into his mouth. Eist kissed her harder in response, until they were both out of breath.

He didn’t pull away immediately, his hands coming up to cup her face and placing small kisses against her lips and the corners of her mouth before leaning his forehead against hers. She lifted her own fingers to his face, tracing the crescent line under his eye. How she had missed it, this face; craggy, in the best possible way.

“You took your sweet time coming back to me,” she chided him and he leaned back, eyebrows rising in surprise. 

“I thought you wanted me to leave England entirely?”

“But you didn’t,” she countered. “And since you apparently always intended to come back, I’m just saying you could have hurried.”

He laughed out loud at that, and she could see him silently mutter the word _impossible_ towards the ceiling, before he looked back to her, eyes twinkling with warm amusement. “Well, these old bones aren’t what they used to be.”

She leaned up, nipping at his bottom lip and murmured against his lips, “I’m sure they’ll do just fine.”

“Mhm, let’s see, shall we?” he hummed, and she grinned at the promise.

Eist knew her in every single one of her dresses, she was sure; knew how to take them off, too. Almost blindly he reached out, untying the girdle around her waist, and letting it drop to the floor while he placed soft little kisses to her jaw, the corner of her mouth, the crease between her brows that only deeped when warmth flooded her and her eyelids fluttered. Where he’d been impetuous in one moment, he now went through all the little steps almost reverently so. His hands wandered up her sides, impossibly warm even through the fabrics, finding the lacings there and beginning to pull them open, one by one, until they finally came off enough for him to take a step back and pull the dress over her head. 

He took another beat to simply look at her, and she decided she needed to speed things up if she wanted to get them anywhere tonight, so she pushed the linen chemise off her shoulders. It pooled on the floor around her feet and she raised an eyebrow at him, an invitation and a challenge.

His own clothes quickly followed, as expected and she found herself on her back on the bed a moment later, with Eist above her, bracing himself on his hands to keep his weight off her. He kissed her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat, and she felt him shift as he moved himself further down to press open-mouthed kisses along her sternum, the side of her breasts. Her fingers buried themselves in his hair, and she felt his groan, muffled against her skin, when her nails scratched over his scalp. At some point she was beginning to tremble with want, his mouth and hands working her up but not pushing her over the edge that he was building up. 

It had been long, too long since she’d been with someone and now even the simplest touch set her body on fire. Her grip in his hair tightened, a silent command to urge him on but she felt him grin against her skin as he continued with his own leisurely pace, gently nipping and nibbling at the softness of her stomach, taking his sweet fucking time, entirely unbothered by the hand in his hair trying to push him where she wanted him. She almost growled with frustration and he chuckled. 

"Impatient," he chided her. “I’m trying to savour the moment.” 

"Then savour it like you didn't get laid in a month," she huffed, paused. “You didn’t, did you?” Not that she felt a flutter of jealousy at the thought, of course, she just… liked knowing things.

“No,” he hummed with a pointed casualness that was decidedly betrayed by the gleaming in his eyes when he looked up at her, his fingers rubbing circles against her hip, “but I did get propositioned by a nun."

Her mouth had barely fallen open before he covered it with his own, and her outrage got swallowed when his skillful tongue brushed against her. He distracted her — for a moment.

"Was she prettier than me?" she asked the second he pulled away for breath, resting the flat of her palms against his chest to be able to look at him properly.

"No one is prettier than you," he said with manufactured indignation, but his eyes twinkled with so much amusement and adoration that it appeased her instantly. Still —

"You're just saying that because you didn't get laid in a month," she grumbled, and he grinned and pecked the pout from her lips. 

Calanthe let her hands run over his shoulders, his muscles there shifting and rippling, up his neck and cupping his jaw, brushing the pads of her thumb over his beard. It had gotten greyer, she noticed, more silver peppered the dark patch of hair now. It looked — good. Really good. 

She couldn’t help it, she leaned up and pulled him into another kiss, and Eist chose this moment to finally sink into her, and her sigh got swallowed between their mouths. Eist was the one who set the pace, because she let him; her impatience gone the moment she’d felt him inside her. Maybe it hadn’t just been frustration, she thought as he rolled his hips, leisurely and unhurried — savouring her —, maybe she’d just… needed to know that they still had this, that after everything that had happened they were still the same people. And if they had changed, just a little bit, perhaps it wasn’t so bad. His nose brushed against her neck, his mouth nipping and sucking on that little spot behind her ear that made her shiver. 

The shindig was at the other side of the castle, and the only sound in the quiet room was the slight rustling of the sheets, the occasional creaking of the bed and their breathing, and Calanthe closed her eyes and let herself feel, until it became too much and her whole body shuddered and shattered. Faintly, she noticed him stilling above her.

After a moment he shifted and let himself drop on the space next to her, his entire arm coming to lie across of her ribcage, and his face nuzzling into the space between her neck and the pillow. She would have been fine had he just let himself collapse entirely on top of her, where she could wrap her arms around him. She’d told him many times that it was a comfortable weight, but he’d never believed her. _I think there is a fine line between the strength of your will and your body that gets a little blurred sometimes,_ he’d chuckled and kissed the little wrinkles of her scowl. 

His breathing grew more shallow and even, his arm over her chest heavier, and she suspected he was beginning to doze off. The tips of her fingers trailed over the length of it, up and down in idle strokes and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so… calm. Like the sea after a storm, when the waves finally settled and the water turned flat like a mirror. There were still ripples, though, (there always were).

Next to her, Eist shifted, a low grumble escaping him as he settled into a more comfortable position. He lay still for barely five seconds before he shifted again, this time rolling away from her, rubbing a hand over his face before tilting his head to look over to her with a knowing expression.

“It's nothing," she murmured before he could ask, reaching out to trace the line of his brow with her forefinger. "Go back to sleep.” 

Never less stubborn than her, Eist pushed himself further up. “Talk, woman,” he said gruffly, still blinking away the sleep that had begun to settle in the corners of his eyes. 

She watched him, his hair mussed from her greedy fingers, the little v between his brows that appeared when he frowned, the blue of his irises that looked more grey at night, like a stormy sea. Every little thing familiar, every little detail enough to brush against her mind like the softest, most soothing caress. There was something she felt when she looked at him that she didn’t normally feel, which was _grateful._ Grateful for the things he did, but also just grateful for his existence. 

“Thank you,” she said softly, “for saving my son’s life.”

His brows furrowed, confused. Whatever he had expected, this was not it. “It was Istredd, and that druid, I didn't —”

“You took him to the lake one summer,” she interrupted him gently, “Coram and your sister's boy. I didn't want you to, but you said it was good to know your way around the water.” Eist nodded, beginning to catch on. “Coram told me he fell into a river when they were ambushed. He would’ve drowned in there, if he hadn’t known how to swim.”

“He was lucky,” Eist said after a moment.

“No," she disagreed, pushing herself up on her knees because he still did not get it. "No, he lives because you cared. You have always cared about us.” She took a deep breath. “After Roegner’s death, there wasn’t a day I wasn’t worried about my children, about the risks they were exposed to. Every decision I’ve made has been with their well being in mind, and I needed to be certain that whatever I’d choose, there would be no fatal consequences. But I know what marriage does, how it works for men and women separately, the power it gives — my new husband could have seized the throne for himself, or our own legitimate children. If he’d wished, he could have exercised his right to pick a husband for my Pavetta, with no concern for her.” 

She threw a quick glance at Eist, gauging his reaction. His face was more serious than usual, but not any less kind.

“I figured this out eventually,” he reassured her quietly. “What I don’t understand is why you still said no, even after all these years. I thought… — did you still not trust me?”

“I did,” she said. “Always have, completely. And that scared me more than anything. It made me feel… blind; and foolish, for letting my emotions cloud my judgement, so much that I couldn't even tell if I was missing something or not.” She paused, and realised with a frown how unsteady her breathing had grown. Talking to the most powerful people in Europe was easy, so easy, compared to this. But Eist looked at her with an attentive gaze that held no judgement, simply waiting for her to continue. He made everything easier, truly. 

“I wanted to end this… thing… between us, after a year or two,” she admitted. It was suddenly difficult to meet his gaze directly. “I don’t think you know. Not _wanted,_ but... I felt myself falling and thought that I had to prove to myself that I could still pull back, if I needed to.”

“I see.” 

There were creases on his forehead where his brows had drawn together, and she wanted to reach out, brush them away. (As if that would solve it, woman. If you want absolution, you must confess and hold nothing back.) She suddenly realised she was wringing her hands in her lap, and she quickly separated them. He’d noticed it anyway.

“You’re a good man, Eist. You deserved a lot more.” _More kindness, more honesty, more everything._ “When you asked, the first time, I knew that the fair thing would have been to push you away, because I was always aware that I couldn’t give you what you asked for. Instead, I desperately wanted to keep you close, against all reason.” She paused. “It didn’t make sense, and that scared me. And I think I was just… never quite able to let go of that feeling. But I wasn't able to let go of you either, so I strung you along, which was…"

— _selfish._

She fell quiet, and Eist didn’t say anything for a while, either. His brows were still deeply furrowed and she could practically see him weighing the words in his head, considering, and her heart was pounding painfully against her ribs as she waited. 

Finally, he looked up, bringing his blue eyes to her face again, and she was surprised to see so much acceptance on his face. “All right.”

“All right?” she echoed, stunned. 

“What else do you want me to say?” he asked, tilting his head a little.

“Tell me I messed up, give me a penance so I can make amends! You have every right to feel wronged." She knew she would. She'd feel lied to, betrayed. The rage and cruelty this would have stirred in her — god, what a hypocrite she was.

But Eist gave her a long, thoughtful look that was much too soft, much too understanding.

“I’m afraid I’m a lost cause, then,” he finally said with a small smile, “because I’ve met a woman who cheated me at a game of cards and instantly fell in love with her. I've always known that you’re all head and all heart, the wildest storm and the warmest sun and I wouldn’t want you to have a single quality less, as contradicting as they are.” He lifted his hand and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Brilliant, beautiful, exasperating woman. Don’t you know I took every step because I wanted to? You couldn’t have strung me along this far if I wasn’t exactly where I wanted to be, right here, with y—”

The rest of the word got buried under her mouth when she crashed it against his, devouring it and pouring all the wild, wonderful, inexplicable love she had for him back. 

“You’re a fool, Eist Tuirseach,” she murmured between little kisses. “You could have had a life so much simpler.”

“Nay,” he shook his head, and she noted with a sudden rush of affection that his eyes were closed, “I’ve been told that a simple life is for old or boring people, and I wouldn’t consider us either.”

“— yet,” Calanthe teased and stroked the pads of her thumbs over his greying beard. _Yet_ , her mind repeated. Time really was an unpredictable thing.

"Eist," she whispered, "if you ask me again, I won't say no."

His whole body stilled. Then he leaned back, tilting his head to find her gaze. (She hadn't even realised she'd lowered it, dropping her chin to hide her face like a nervous little child.) Tentatively, she lifted her gaze to meet his. 

Eist’s eyes were wide as they studied her, read and deciphered the expression on her face. _Fuck if she knew what it was saying right now._ His hands were digging into her thighs, she guessed he probably didn't even notice. He swallowed, and something in her chest fluttered with anxious anticipation —

There was a knock on the door that almost had her cry out in frustration, and Eist shot an annoyed glance towards the unwelcome interruptance. For a moment neither of them moved, silently hoping they would go away, but then the knocking repeated and Eist gently lifted her off him, pulling on a nightshirt before answering the door. 

Calanthe got up from the bed, too, quietly putting on her own undergarments and waited. She could hear a man’s voice on the other side, talking to Eist who didn’t even try to hide his blatant impatience, giving short replies until finally the man left.

“Everything all right?” Calanthe asked when Eist turned back to her with an apologetic look.

“Yes, it was nothing.” 

An awkward silence was filling the room where she waited for him to pick up their previous conversation, and he simply… observed her, quiet and tentative as if she was a deer in the woods that would bolt at the wrong movement. (Maybe that was exactly what she looked like.)

Three times he had proposed to her, and three times she had rejected him. How many people would put themselves through that and still be there, and here she was, expecting him to do it again. _Hell,_ she would beg, if that’s what it took. That thought startled her, but it didn’t change the fact that it was true, and somehow it was like a fog lifted and everything felt so clear as if it had always been this way. Because the truth was, whatever bad could happen, it would be worse without him there.

“Ask me again,” she said quietly. It was a request as much as a plea.

Slowly, he took a few steps towards her, eyes never leaving her face. He was following her cues, she realised and she knew that she needed to get this right, or she would regret it forever. _No masks, no hiding._

He came to a halt two arm lengths away from her, took another moment to take her in, and then he asked with an unfamiliar rasp in his voice, "Will you be mine own heart, Calanthe Fiona Riannon, before God and the world?”

“Yes,” she breathed out, with the relief of releasing a long-held breath. 

She watched his mouth spread into a smile that seemed to light up his whole face and suddenly his arms wrapped around her and she let out a surprised laugh when he spun her around, like a damn fool, like the most wonderful person. He set her down then, barely, her feet only brushing the ground because of how tightly he was still holding her. But she was holding him just the same, her arms around his shoulders and her fingertips trailing over the nape of his neck and into the soft curls. 

“And will you be mine, Eist Tuirseach?” she asked, because she might be smiling down at him like a bloody fool herself (because yes, she loved him and couldn't do a damn thing about it), but she was still Calanthe of Sintra, and she’d never let herself be had without having in return.

“Silly woman —” He brushed his nose against hers, and his eyes twinkled like water reflecting the sun. “I always was.” 

She let him get away with his teasing (this time). Instead, she placed a kiss to the corner of his mouth as she lowered herself to her feet that was much, much sweeter than usual. Well, it had been an unusual day. 

“Let’s go to bed,” she whispered.

He hummed regretfully, “I don’t know if I can go again.”

“To sleep,” she clarified with a lopsided grin. “I’m dead on my feet, too.” 

“Old bones?” he teased, and she let her head fall forward against his chest with a groan. He put his arms around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“That’s all right,” he muttered into her hair. “We have all the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one epilogue left 💛 thank you for reading, u know i am so happy about every single one of you


	7. Epilogue

It is odd, how sometimes things happen in life that appear small, but change everything. And how things that should change everything, sometimes change nothing at all. 

Her first marriage turned her world upside down. A single contract that sliced her life in two parts — life before marriage, and life after. From Portugal to England, from girl to woman, from princess to queen, from her own body to somebody else’s. 

Everything changed. It was the way of life, this unpredictable creature; the way she had come to know it.

The way her daughter had, despite Calanthe doing her best to prepare her for it. Her sweet girl, walking an almost identical path. From England to Denmark, girl to woman, princess to queen, her own to —

Her son, too, wasn’t given the generosity of time. Four years of age, the crown slipping over his forehead down to his eyes. King first, learning how to be later.

_It is like swimming, Eist tells her. Some people get to learn it in shallow waters, step by step, with a hand holding them. Others get thrown in at the deep end and must figure it out through kicking._

_“How did you learn?” she asks him, and only gets a wan smile in return._

She cannot believe she let him take her boy to the lake a few years later. But Eist is not his father.

Eist is not like anybody else she knows. He is _better_.

_Nobody should be pushed into anything they don’t feel ready for, Eist says and gives her a strange look that she does not want to read into._

Light falls through the window, and she hears the birds chirping, the wind rustling through the leaves, the sound of voices from afar, carrying into the room she is in. When she looks outside, she sees a light blue lake, glittering in the summer sun. Denmark seems to be built on water — lakes, ponds, streams and the sea, wherever one looks. 

In England, most of the water comes from above. At least this is an improvement. No wonder Eist seems so happy here, she thinks, shaking her head to herself and doesn’t try to stop her lips from curling.

Eist and her have travelled to Denmark five days ago, because Eist has missed being on the high sea, and she has missed Pavetta, and they have _time_ now. Time, and no responsibilities.

There is a quick knock on the door.

“Your granddaughter is a troublemaker,” Eist announces when he enters, and she smiles to herself at the obvious affection in his voice. Little Cirilla has kept her grandfather on his toes for most of the day, and he hasn’t minded it one bit.

“Then you should stop enabling her, perhaps,” she offers without looking up from the letter in her hands.

“That would be mighty hypocritical of me— ” he grins and leans down to press a kiss to her neck. His beard prickles against her skin. “— considering who I married.”

She harrumphs but doesn't argue. No fun in picking battles she knows she can't win. Unless, of course, she considers the argument itself as a bridge to something… more enjoyable. But that is a different kind of winning, so the point still stands.

He sits on the bed and pulls off his boots, which, she notices from the corners of her eyes, are muddy. She would bet everything and a penny that he and Cirilla had been at the very lake she could see from her window.

"So what were you two up to?" she asks, folding the letter back and opening the next one.

"Ciri wanted to go feed the swans. She had plenty a good time until one of them snapped at her. I had to physically hold her back because she seemed quite ready to smack it square in its face."

This draws a snicker even from her and when she turns in her chair, she can see the grin on his face as he pulls the second boot off and places them next to the hinder bedpost.

He does look happy, she thinks. There is a glow on his face, and his eyes look like they’re always smiling. It gives her an odd rush, knowing that she has a part in it. It’s not a narcissistic thought— he as much said so himself, murmured between warm sheets and the first rays of a morning sun. Called himself the luckiest man on earth.

She is the lucky one.

He looks up and finds her watching him, and his expression melts with pure love. She can only imagine how much of it is being reflected on her own face.

His eyes land on the stack of papers in front of her, and she can see his brows ripple with mild, fond disapproval.

“Stop the meddling, woman,” he chides her softly. “The kingdom won’t fall apart in your absence. Coram is doing really well, you can take a break from all that.”

His eyes drift back to the many papers on her desk, and she can see the little v above the bridge of his nose. 

It had gotten harder to decipher the written words when she hit forty, and now more often than not she finds herself with a headache from leaning over the documents at a late hour in the flickering light of a candle. Eist had picked up on it within months. 

Noticed, more and more, how she shifts the papers, closer, further back, trying to find the right distance. If he asked her, she would never admit it. So he doesn’t mention it, simply steals the paper she’s been hunched over one night, lets himself fall back on the bed and starts reading it out loud to her. _“You and that report were getting way too cosy,” he quips when she stares at him, wordlessly. “I was becoming jealous.”_

Later, much later she tells him that she knew what he was doing. It is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for her, in such a small, subtle way. Offering her his help without pushing her to face her own shortcomings. 

Besides, she likes the sound of his voice. (She doesn’t tell him this, but she thinks he knows.)

“Join Ciri and me on our adventure tomorrow, love. It will be fun.” 

Her mouth hooks into a grin, “Do you promise that you will protect me, too, from the big, mean swan?”

“You’re a tough girl,” he says, half-tease, half-honest. “I have full faith that you can take him.”

On the inside, she laughs. On the outside, she purses her lips, raises her chin dramatically and huffs, “Some ex-bodyguard you are.” 

He dips his head and she can see the grin spread. 

Being married again should have changed things. Should have rattled the foundations of her life, shifted them, sunken down on her with a weight. A struggle, feet kicking. Instead, it’s… easy, calm, steady, light. 

_You know why_ , a voice whispers. _It’s because you weren’t pushed. You stepped into it._

“You coming?”

Eist is standing by the door, waiting for her. She smiles and gets up from her chair.

end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with permission, I adopted the idea that Calanthe at one point in her life needs glasses from Veiled Truths, because I found it cute a̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶. No glasses in medieval Europe, obviously, but it's ok, she has an Eist.
> 
> comments always mean the world, but thank you for reading regardless <3


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